


The First Times

by Liara_90



Series: Fourfold [1]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Awkward First Times, Bisexual Female Character, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, First Time, Happy Ending, Heterosexual Sex, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Lesbian Sex, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Canon, Prostitution, The Achieve Men, Underage Drinking, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 05:41:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4992463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liara_90/pseuds/Liara_90
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The women of RWBY tell their lovers the stories of the first time they had sex. Sometimes funny, sometimes sad, and maybe just a little heartwarming. Not really a sequel, but follows the same character interpretations as "Fantasies from the Heart". </p>
<p>Yang wants to prove to herself that she's not afraid.</p>
<p>Blake just wants to survive.</p>
<p>Weiss defies the world she was born into.</p>
<p>And Ruby's heart will open minds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Yang - The Die is Cast

"And _that's_ how Ren lost his virginity," declared Nora Valkyrie with a triumphant smile, scanning the faces of her audience, which at this point was the better part of Beacon's cafeteria. All eyes swiveled to Lie Ren, sitting stone-faced, his tray of food untouched before him. They were all waiting for, _pleading_ for him to intrude, to clarify what was surely one of Nora's habitual exaggerations. Something along the lines of 'Only _scented_ candles were involved' or 'the building was still structurally sound when we left'.

"Everything Nora said is literally true," he finally stead, his voice flat and emotionless, his expression looking like he was contemplating ritual disembowelment.

Pyrrha, Jaune and Blake looked deeply unsettled. Weiss looked repulsed. Yang's jaw had fallen open in a pantomime of shock. Ruby looked like she was having string theory explained to her for the first time.

"But if you were on top of him," Ruby slowly began, "how did you reach his-"

"THAT'S enough show-and-tell for today, thank you everyone," said Yang, planting her hands firmly over her half-sister's ears.

"Quite," agreed Weiss, finishing the last of her vegetables. "Ruby, I'll meet you in the library in ten minutes to review Dust crystal structure."

Ruby cocked her head sideways and raised her eyebrows. Weiss glared at Yang, who belatedly removed her hands, then took her partner by the hand and dragged her from that den of corruption. Blake let out a soft chuckle, before standing up to accompany Yang on the trek back to their dorm room.

"You know," said Blake, as they strolled across the campus, the Clocktower basking in the sunset's orange rays, "you never told me about your first time." She coiled around Yang's arm, listening to her girlfriend's steady breaths.

"First time I kissed a boy? Thought I had," said Yang, her free hand catching a dried leaf as it drifted to the ground in the autumnal air. "It was Lil' Yang's birthday, and-"

"First time you had _sex_ , Yang," clarified Blake. But then the faunus grew suddenly very quiet, which her partner picked up on immediately.

"Kitty cat?" Blake hated that nickname, which was why she only used it when she needed to elicit a reaction.

"Sorry." Blake shook her head, the brisk air seeming to clear her thoughts. "That was an… intimate.. question of me to ask."

"Blake, you've had three fingers in me at once. It gets only marginally more intimate than that," said Yang was a small laugh. "We spend enough time together and all the awkward personal history bits are bound to come out eventually."

"I know. It's just… unfair." Yang said nothing, knowing the sideways glance of her head would be enough of a cue for Blake to continue. "I probably wouldn't tell you about _my_ first time. So it's unfair of me to expect you to answer."

"Your call, my love," said Yang, not a trace of judgment in her voice. "But just this once, I'd be willing to be the more generous party."

"That's not necessary," replied Blake, stubbornly.

"But you're curious, right?" asked Yang. She glanced from Blake's face to her bow, which twitched involuntarily in excitement.

_Yes._

"….Yes," Blake eventually conceded.

They reached their dorm room, wordlessly changing into pajamas. It was only seven in the evening, but Yang happily knew no one would stop them. They needed a word for the indescribable comfort of lounging around in one's sleepwear. She slid onto Blake's bed and watched her girlfriend, eyes tracing the lines created as one fold of her yukata crossed over the other.

"Alright, Blakey," said Yang, resting each of her hands on one of her own bare knees. "I am willing to give you a generous, one-time offer to hear the story of my, Yang Xiao Long's, first sexual encounter, with a 100% no-obligation-to-reciprocate guarantee. Act now, or I'll get bored and go back to distracting you while you read."

Her grin was infectious, and Blake couldn't help but smile a bit in turn. She peered into those lilac eyes and saw only warmth and care.

She took the bait.

"Alright," said Blake, setting aside (for now) _Ninjas of Love Vol. 17 - Harem of the Shōgun_ , to give Yang her undivided attention. She knelt upright in her bed and clasped her hands politely in her lap, staring at Yang with the intensity of a cat tracking her prey. "So where does this lurid tale of debauchery begin?"

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_"Oh, Jeff," I moaned, as his cock pounded me like a jackhammer. "Come on, baby, ride me. Ride me like your shiny metal horses!"_

_Jeff failed to disappoint, grabbing an ass cheek in either hand and thrusting powerfully with his hips, passion in his eyes and the taste of whiskey on his lips. Behind me, or I guess more beneath me at this point, Mike took a boob in either hand, running slow but deliberate circles over my nipples. "Oh, Yang," he groaned, desire dripping from his voice like honey. He began nibbling at my ear as I pressed further into him, my back arching as Jeff pushed me back harder and harder until_

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Stop."

The dreamy look vanished from Yang's eyes as she swiveled about to face her girlfriend, though that stupid grin was still plastered to her face. "Yes, my love?"

"Yang, you did not lose your virginity in a threesome with Jeff Ramsay and Mike Joenes before they formed the Achieve Men," declared Blake, picking up _Ninjas of Love_ again.

"I totally could have," replied Yang in a huff, defensively crossing her arms in front of her chest.

"No, you _couldn't_ have," insisted Blake, her tone deadpan. "The first time Jeff and Mike met was in the Vacuo-Kanata Battle of the Bands, when you were…. nine, ten? And they didn't leave Oazė City for another three months, as they were performing five nights a week at Zand Punk, where they met Jacque and officially formed the Achieve Men." Yang let out a snort of annoyance, but Blake continued pressing her case. "Furthermore, in a pre-show interview with Hype-Train News, Jeff explicitly stated that they'd never set foot on Patch prior to their first concert there, which was…. eight months ago, if memory serves?

Yang scowled.

"If you're going to insist on re-watching that docu-drama with me in the room a hundred times eventually I'm going to going to be able to call you out on your bullshit."

"Alright, so maybe that only happened in my real-person fanfic," Yang conceded, causing Blake to roll her eyes. "It's a much better story than what actually happened, anyway."

"I understand if you're too embarrassed to tell me," said Blake, her tone absolutely calm as her gaze returned to the open book beneath her.

"I am not," countered Yang, her voice righteous indignation. She knew what Blake was doing, her manipulations as subtle as Magnhild, but Yang fell for it all the same. She waited for Blake to slide a bookmark between the pages and put the tome to rest on the bed beside her.

"Okay, before I begin, you've got to understand that there's really not a lot to do on Patch…"

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Yang swirled the red plastic cup absent-mindedly, watching the yellowy liquid within slosh 'round and 'round. She was, superficially, the avatar of boredom. She lay on the grass, propped up on one arm, watching the waves crash on the rocky shore beneath her. She wore a tight-fitting T-shirt under a black bomber jacket, below those were denim shorts and combat boots. She stood out from the other girls in her class, beautiful and intimidating at the same time, a wellspring for rumors and gossip. She wasn't really _normal_ , she knew, and not just because she was one of the best fighters Signal Academy had ever seen. She thought differently, moved differently, _lived_ differently. And she was fine with that, even if the sense of remoteness weighed down on her at times.

The scene was a house party on the south side of Patch, kicking off a two-week break that had once heralded the start of fishing season but was now just an excuse to break up the school year. Dad had taken Ruby to go shopping in Vale, some tools they didn't sell on Patch, or something, leaving Yang to her own devices. A party at a friend's house was a slow start.

Most of the students who'd shown up were here solely for the promised beer, to feel rebellious and alive. Yang had done it too many times to get an illicit thrill from underage drinking, though she appreciated the mild buzz all the same. She finished the last of her drink and stared absently at the water again, the sunset tinting it yellow and red.

_'Going to do it tonight,'_ Yang promised herself, slowly crumbling the plastic cup in her hand. _'Dust, everyone does it. Hell,_ Ruby _will be doing it soon enough. What are you going to say when you can't dodge the question anymore?'_

She shook the thoughts from her head, making her way back to the heart of the party. The music was this high-pitched boy band that was all the rage right now, though Yang could barely stand it. At least they were keeping the volume down to avoid noise complaints…

Hans.

She eyed him from across the backyard's wooden deck, rolling her neck so her blonde hair seemed to flow around her. He was looking at her, she knew, suddenly uninterested in the conversation about BMX bike repair. He was good looking, if in kind of a generic way, the fact that he was an exchange student from Mistral being his most unique characteristic. Average height and build, athletic but not ripped, an easy smile and adept conversationalist. His hair was cut in that wavy Mistrali fashion, giving him a kind of a tussled, roguish charm. And the accent went a long way in a place as homogenous as Patch.

He liked her, and he wasn't scared of her, which was more than Yang could say for most boys in her year. She reminded him of the women of Sanctum, he'd mentioned in the cafeteria that one time, trying and failing to make it sound like an off-hand remark. Tough and unafraid. Yang had laughed to conceal her blush and they smiled at each other for longer than they had an excuse to. He wasn't better than her in any of the sports they played, (I mean, really, who was?), but he forced her to think and to sweat, which was a welcome change of pace.

_Good enough?_

Yang silently debated filling another cup with liquid courage, but decided against it. Another drink would probably do little more than color her cheeks, but she didn't want to risk going to far. So she settled for a Schnee Cola, watching as Hans politely excused himself to refill on nachos. Alone.

_'He's a guy. They're not hard to flirt with. Bat eyelids, brush skin, lick lips - instant seduction.'_ Her stomach clenched. She hated this kind of planning, choreographing something that was meant to be spontaneous, but she _really_ didn't want to fuck it up. _Make out at this place. Then my place. Then…then do it…. ___

__"It's a nice night, eh?" said Hans, his accent heavy but intelligible. Yang went through the motions of filling a plate with nachos._ _

__"I'm kind of cold, actually," she lied, moving far closer to him than she needed to. Booted toes brushed against each other._ _

__"Where I'm from, we'd kill to have this kind of weather right now." He was nervous, that much was obvious. Speaking more carefully and deliberately, like he was worried of flubbing a language test. Yang flashed a wide grin._ _

__"Wow, you are really warm," she said, placing one hand against his forearm. She could practically see the hairs stand on end. Had she left it at that, the move would've been written off as a Yang-esque oddity, typical of the girl with such a poor sense of personal space. She held him for a few seconds, lilac eyes peering into his almond browns while her thumb softly rubbed his skin._ _

_**Lips** , Yang. That's the sign._

__Yang's teeth sunk into her lower lip, and she hoped the gesture appeared spontaneous. "Not cold at all?" she asked, wiggling her eyebrows._ _

__"Well… maybe a little," said Hans, though he was clearly struggling to make words._ _

__"Come on, let's go inside," said Yang, taking his hand in hers and yanking him towards the house. It was maybe twenty paces, which suddenly seemed like a marathon to her. She knew she was being watched, that her intentions were as subtle as a flare gun in the sea, but she squelched the uncertainty bubbling within her. She'd look even stupider going back now._ _

__The kitchen was, mercifully, empty, the small windows curtained so only a sliver of the backyard was visible. Yang wanted to be at least _somewhat_ in the open, though, to make sure she had a handle on the situation before they went somewhere more private._ _

__Hans was flush with excitement by the time she pressed softly against him, heart pounding in his chest. Yang consciously steadied her own breathing, remembering the mental image she constructed of how this was to unfold._ _

__"Okay, so, you put your hands….here," said Yang, manipulating Hans so his palms came to a rest in the small of her back. "And I go here." Her arms wrapped around his neck. She breathed very heavily through her nose for a few seconds, her assertiveness having stripped Hans of the ability to show any initiative of his own._ _

__They kissed, Yang forceful and passionate, Hans careful and deliberate. Yang had kissed boys before. Mostly overdramatic gestures designed to fluster her victims, but once or twice with romantic intent. She kept her tongue in her own mouth, heart pounding as one of Hans' hands slowly drifted up her back, pushing her jacket up._ _

___Okay. Good. Now just do that for a while. Shouldn't be too hard._ _ _

__And it really wasn't, even if Yang did most of the heavy lifting, so to speak. There was nothing particularly elegant about the way she kissed his face, but she got a jolt of excitement with every instance of contact. Hans was more cautious, moving from her lips to other territory only after Yang had already done so in triplicate. His breath was warm on her skin. And he wasn't playing with her hair, which was a point in his favor._ _

__A cat-themed clock kept track of time for them - eighteen minutes had passed before Yang broke off. Only a few of her classmates had wandered into the kitchen through their session, the rest having apparently gotten the message. Yang tried to stifle speculation as to what they were saying about her already. Ten minutes ago she'd let her hands drift down to Hans' ass, enjoying the feel of his firm buttocks in her hands; he had cautiously followed suit five minutes later. She could feel his erection pressed against her, had brushed over it 'by accident' once or twice with her hands. _This is good.__ _

__"Let's go back to my place," said Yang, pulling him towards the front door._ _

__"You're almost on the other side of Patch, aren't you?" said Hans, his voice breathless. "My place is only five minutes by-"_ _

__"My place, or not at all," said Yang, her tone leaving little room for argument._ _

__"Hey, sure, whatever," said Hans, slightly flustered at the ferocity of her assertion._ _

__They made their way to the front yard, Yang catching the eye of anyone who glanced her way. None held her gaze. Like most Patch Islanders her age Yang used an old-fashioned bike for the bulk of her transportation needs, until she got the motorcycle that was her due come graduation. Yang took off in a hurry, powerful legs pedaling with a lifetime of familiarity, but she had to slow down a few minutes later, as her Mistrali date didn't quite share her aptitude._ _

__Part of Yang wished she _had_ gone to Hans' place. It really _was_ cold now, and twenty minutes was a long time to ride in near-silence. Whatever heat they'd built up between them in the kitchen had faded almost entirely, and would need to be rekindled anew upon arrival. Not hard, but annoying. But her place was, well, _her_ place. She knew who else would be there (nobody), knew how the doors locked, where her training weapons were stored. She could go over to Hans' next time._ _

___Not, you know, like there going to be a next time._ Yang thought, almost bitterly. _That was the whole appeal of an exchange student on the next airship to Mistral, isn't it?__ _

__They reached her place shortly thereafter, storing their bikes by the garage. Yang made a show of kissing Hans, letting her hands drift purposefully to the front of his pants for the first overt time of the evening. He was tired, and perhaps a little annoyed, but arousal had a way of drowning out his emotions. He began kissing back, and Yang laughed, and led him in through the back door._ _

__She gave him a highly-abbreviated tour, mostly to make sure there weren't any unexpected residents, before dragging him down to the basement. It was basically a big rec room - a TV, a few couches, last-generation's game consoles and a small library of books piled into towers. Yang always liked the basement, far more than her own room, which she used for little more than sleeping and dressing. The basement was safe and familiar, her memories of carefree summer days almost etched into the walls._ _

__She pushed Hans to the couch with a playful shove, tackling him a moment later into its cushions. Kissing horizontally was so preferable to vertically. She was on top (of course), hands playing over his chest, his arms, letting her hips brush against his._ _

__Yang tossed her jacket off, then hesitated momentarily as her fingers curled beneath the hem of her T-shirt. Hans looked up expectantly. She belatedly tried to make her indecision look playful, coy, but she couldn't sell it with her eyes. She discarded the T-shirt a moment later, a jet-black bra giving Hans something new to stare at. His hands moved cautiously over the fabric, never pushing or squeezing, and his own shirt was off a moment later. Yang had seen him topless before - almost every gym class, really - but having unfettered access was admittedly a bit more exciting._ _

___Less fucking around, more **fucking** , Yang,_ that voice in her head reminded her. _Right.__ _

__"So…" her hands ran over his pants, feeling the bulge constrained by his jeans. "How about we take this to the next level?" Lip bitten, she watched the uncertainty play across his face._ _

__"Oh, um, yeah…" said Hans, with what she assumed was an excusable amount of fluster. "I want to yeah, but, you know, I'm happy just to make out. Are you sure?"_ _

__"Of course I'm sure!" Yang retorted, her eyes flashing red for the smallest fraction of a second. Hans look startled. She stroked the tented fabric again, not wanting to lose him to a stupid panic outburst. "I know what I want," she followed-up, planting a kiss on the side of his neck. She unbuttoned his fly._ _

__"I, uh, don't have any condoms on me," Hans blurted out, as Yang cautiously pulled his jeans off. The contours of his dick were unmistakable now._ _

__"I've got some," Yang blurted out, and hastily leapt off him, as if he would storm out if the dilemma wasn't resolved in the next five seconds . "Be right back!"_ _

___Great, you've just told him you keep a supply of condoms with you at all times. Like a fucking slut._ Yang shook the thought from her head as she ran up the stairs two at a time. The box had remained unopened since she'd bought it a month ago, buried beneath stuffed animals and an old netball dress. She doubted anyone would have disapproved, but she kept it a secret nonetheless. She found the box and tore the cardboard open, thrown off momentarily by the fact that the little packages of condoms were strung together in a chain instead of detached square like they'd practiced with in school. She took the whole box down with her._ _

__Hans had fully stripped down to his underwear by the time Yang returned, leaving her comparably overdressed in her bra and shorts. She tossed him the box. He whiffed the catch, though in his defense Yang was unbuttoning her shorts at the time. The panties weren't from the same set as the bra, but at least they were both black._ _

__Hans peered at the box. " _Australisce - Fuck Like a Faunus,_ " he said, reading the printed labeling in a flat tone. "Sorry," he said, apologetically, "we don't have this brand in Mistral."_ _

__"They're all pretty much the same," asserted Yang, with false confidence. Though in truth she'd only picked that type because the selling points of its two leading competitors - ULTRA-Thin and Tropical Fruit Flavored - made her worry about structural integrity and the presumption of oral sex, respectively._ _

__"Give me a second to put it on."_ _

__In retrospect, folding her arms and watching expectantly probably wasn’t the most relaxing posture for Yang to assume, but she was too unfamiliar with the process to be genuinely at ease. Hans had hunched over and turned slightly to the side on the couch, so she couldn't see exactly what he was doing. _How long does it take to put on a condom?_ (The question was both rhetorical and literal). With an annoyed grunt Hans tossed a condom to the floor. Yang frowned, not finding the discarded barrier device a particularly pleasant sight, and grew impatient as Hans tore open a second package._ _

__"Sorry, it's, um, gone a little soft. Just give me a minute," said Hans, speaking as if he was stepping through a minefield. Yang walked back to the couch and positioned herself so she was facing him square-on, staring at the half-formed erection between his legs. "Sorry, just…. nervousness," said Hans, taking his dick in his hand and strumming the head. "Maybe if you, ah, put it in your mouth?"_ _

__Yang knelt down on the floor in front of the couch without thinking, shins resting on a shaggy rug. She stared up at Hans, her hands playing over his thighs, competing thoughts tripping over each other in her mind. Different versions of her self-identity seemed to war with one another, contradictory insinuations that she was a cock-loving slut and a pussy-eating dyke shouting each other down in her head. She knew there was supposed to be a pace to these things, a natural escalation from one activity to another, but she'd probably already thrown the book out the window by pouncing on Hans in the backyard so what did it really matter-_ _

__She took his dick in her hands and began stroking, her grip unusually soft as she pumped him. Some part of her brain wished she'd seen sex acts in something other than porn flicks, as those probably weren't the best learning aides, but at least she knew the motions. He was hard in seconds, sinking back into the couch, arms spread like the cushions were holding him aloft. Yang grabbed another foil and hastily tore it open, fiddling to pull the condom out with one hand while she kept stroking him with the other._ _

___Third time's the charm. It's just like a banana. Except bananas are curved. And don't have nerve endings. Fuck._ _ _

__She stuck the wrong end on first, the stretchy latex refusing to unroll, Yang wordlessly berating herself as she flipped it over and began rolling it down to the base of his shaft. The feeling of the spermicidal coating was as weird now as it was in that one sex ed class, and the color wasn't any more attractive on a penis than it was on a fruit, but she ignored that and climbed back atop the couch._ _

___Okay. Cowgirl style. You can do this._ _ _

__She was quivering, both with nervousness and excitement. She discarded her panties and bra, saving Hans the indignity of fumbling with the clasp behind her back. She'd done her best to shave _down there_ , but the razor irritated her skin and she could never get it looking as smooth as the pics online. She tried to move fast, in case that was some turn-off of his. Yang slid between Hans' legs, before quickly realizing that this would probably be easier if hers were on the outside. _Obviously.__ _

__Somehow _missing_ had never been something she'd been worried about in a sexual encounter, but getting his erect penis inside her was as challenging as getting the condom on. They both grabbed his dick and began guiding it towards her, Yang biting her lip (this time in discomfort rather than seduction) as the tip pressed between her folds._ _

__And then Hans **thrust** , pushing his hips up with a powerful gyration, driving almost the entirety of his length into Yang with one swift motion. Yang let out an involuntary cry of pain as she felt it forcing her apart, the pain and shock of the sensation almost sending her toppling. Yang knew that wasn't what you were supposed to do, knew from her own self-experimentation that you needed to ease into these things even in a pique of arousal, but words failed her utterly as Hans put a hand on either side of her hips, holding her down. Whether he heard, understood, or cared about her cry was completely unknown._ _

__Yang placed her hands firmly on his pectorals, more to give herself something to push _off_ of than for any tactile stimulation, but otherwise did little as Hans rocked his hips up and down. She couldn’t help letting out groans, though to Hans they sounded more pleasurable than painful, spurring him onwards. The thought of stopping never crossed her mind, she had mentally committed to seeing this to completion without ever considering her other options. Her facial contortions went unnoticed as he pumped up and down, _up and down_._ _

__To her own surprise Yang came, the powerful stimulation and the way he grinded against her crotch finally, unexpectedly pushing her over the edge. The orgasm was altogether different from what Yang experienced in the solitude of her own bedroom, _deeper_ was perhaps the best word for it. Not unequivocally better or worse, at least at the moment of climax._ _

___Inhale. Exhale._ _ _

__For some reason, Yang had assumed orgasms were pretty much simultaneous by nature, that her release would mirror's Hans'. But as she rapidly grew more and more sensitive Hans kept pumping upwards, his pace quickening until it was practically a patter of fleshly slaps. Yang grit her teeth, wincing in pain as she began to tighten. _Give him a blowjob. Don't offer an explanation, just get off and put his dick in your mouth. He won't care._ Yang let out a short, sharp yell of pain, trying to push off Hans but stumbling forward onto him. He moaned powerfully in turn, and Yang felt the swell as he released his load._ _

__They lay there for a minute or two, Hans on his back, Yang pressing against his chest. No longer moving, the sensation within her folds was not nearly as painful, though Yang winced in relief as she felt him begin to soften within her. His grip on her hips slackened, and she slid off, feeling a chill run up her spine at the sense of his dick leaving her._ _

__"Well, thanks for dropping by," said Yang, her voice unusually lifeless, pushing off him once Hans and her both seemed to be breathing normally again._ _

__"What, you're, ah, 'kicking me to the curb' already?" asked Hans, a satisfied grin on his face as he slid the condom off his dick, letting it fall to the floor. Yang rolled her eyes._ _

__"I got a busy day tomorrow," she said, collecting her own garments in a distracted hurry. She skipped the bra and slipped her T-shirt on first. "I'll give you a call sometime, m'kay?"_ _

__"Sounds good," replied Hans, with the rote politeness of someone spotting a white lie but forced to play along with it anyways. "And, yeah, I have to go pack, anyways," he continued, finding his pants._ _

__She locked the door behind him a few minutes later, the sound of the deadbolt ringing in her ears._ _

___Almost midnight. Shit._ _ _

__She walked to her room and unscrewed a translucent orange bottle. Serotonin and noradrenaline reuptake inhibitors, just like the doctor ordered. Trekking back to the basement, she grimaced and picked up the used condoms, still littering the basement floor, burying them in the garbage bag beneath the other non-recyclables. Air fresher for the cushions. Clothes in the laundry bin. Yang in the shower. Just like she'd planned._ _

__The bumblebee shower curtain her dad had installed when they were both kids, a lifetime or two ago, smiled back at her._ _

___Hey, who gives a fuck, you did it! This is why you did it for the first time with some Mistrali dude, so when it_ actually _matters you won't be such a complete fucking idiot. Exposure to something is how people get over any fear. Like how you road your bike down the hill again and again until you stopped reliving that wipeout.__ _

__"Right," said Yang out loud, over the flow of water._ _

___You can stop being scared whenever now, Yang._ _ _

__\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_ _

__

__They sat in silence on Blake's book-rimmed bed, Yang twirling a strand of hair absent-mindedly, _Ninjas of Love_ long-forgotten._ _

__"Told you the first story was more fun," said Yang, cracking the ice. "It ends with Jeff and Joenes discovering they're both bi, so then while I'm getting my-"_ _

__"Yang," said Blake, her soft tone masking an authoritative undertone. Her girlfriend shut up. "Thank you for sharing that with me. I know… I know it wasn't easy for you."_ _

__Yang opened her mouth, preparing to utter some reflexive dismissal, but closed it, opting for an uncharacteristically small smile instead. They weren't the greatest partners in Beacon because they didn't get how the other was feeling, after all._ _

"I'm glad I told you," she finally said, with a small shrug. "I haven't told anyone before. Not even Ruby. No, _especially_ not Ruby." She paused. "And I'm not just saying that to try to guilt-trip you into anything, Blakey." Another pause. "Seriously, don't tell Ruby." 

__"You have my word of honor," said Blake with mock seriousness, pressing her hands against the mattress of the bed and bowing her head to the blanket. Yang laughed and tackled her midway through, pulling the blanket out from under, and then over, the two of them._ _

__"If you don't mind me asking… are you still scared, Yang?" asked Blake, her limbs intertwined with her lover's._ _

"I don't know. No. Maybe." Yang let out a groan of self-annoyed frustration. "First time a girl went down on me I hyperventilated and barely talked my way out of an ambulance. After we fucked for the first time I only wanted to hide in a dark corner for a few hours." 

__"You wound me," replied Blake dryly._ _

__"Nononono, it wasn't you at all, I mean-" she caught the teasing look in Blake's eye, and proceeded to smack her with the pillow. "You're a dick, Belladonna."_ _

__"By the sound of your story I think you'd like me better if I had one."_ _

__"Oh, making fun of my insecurities _and_ my bisexuality on the same night," said Yang, though she couldn't keep the amusement from her voice. "Why not point out my deadbeat Mom and complete the trifecta."_ _

__They lay beneath the blankets in amicable silence, touches escalating to kisses as the minutes passed, though the return of their roommates aborted further lovemaking. They'd long since given up pretending the RWBY Dorm was a couples-free zone - at the end of the day maintaining the façade was just too much effort - though that couldn't spare them from Weiss' scornful gaze or Ruby's curious stares._ _

__Blake returned to _Ninjas of Love_ , but didn't turn a page for an hour._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the italics tags got messed when I was formatting this and it's a remarkable pain editing, so this chapter come across as a bit more stream-of-consciousness than I initially planned.
> 
> Eagle-eyed readers (I'll pretend you're coming out of the woodworks now) will of course have noted that this continues my tradition of attributing every work of music known to man to the Achieve Men, who this time are pilfering from Trocadero (+100 Internet for spotting the reference). Another 100 points for identifying the reference to the greatest masterpiece of Canadian art shortly thereafter.
> 
> Thanks again to everyone whose ever given me feedback, particularly the commenters on Fantasies From the Heart, which helped push me to crank this out. If you're one of those readers really concerned about continuity, yes, I suppose this is technically a prequel, not that it really matters, as it's more just a consistent interpretation of canon. I presume background information that'll be unveiled over the course of Volume III will render this all absurdly canon non-compliant anyways. 
> 
> Thanks again you guys!
> 
> (PS: Harem of the Shogun is, in fact, the official title for RWBY Volume 17. Can't wait!)


	2. Blake - The Best Laid Schemes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Humans crack down on faunus activists, and Blake and Adam are forced to flee, struggling to survive.

Weiss and Ruby finished collecting whatever it was they'd come to collect and headed off to the library, Blake and Yang still conspicuously sharing a bed, though they kept each other at arm's length until the door slammed shut.

"So I've been thinking," said Blake, as Yang closed the distance to her on all fours.

"Yes, my love?"

"I think I'd like to tell you the story of my first time."

"Oh?" said Yang, with forced casualness, as she stopped her prowl a foot from Blake's knees.

"There are conditions," said Blake. She absently fiddled with the bow on her head, freeing her faunus ears from their lacy bondage. She refocused her attention on an expectant Yang. "You don't interrupt me until I'm done. For anything."

"No pee breaks. Got it," said Yang with a grin, although Blake could tell from her eyes that she was really understood.

"Secondly…" Blake straightened her back, the way she always did when she tried to look composed and serious, though Yang couldn't help thinking that it made her look like a waiting cat (which she knew better than to point out). "Secondly… you have to give me as many cuddles as I want after."

Her tone was so deadpan, so serious, that Yang had to let out a guffaw of laughter. Blake's cheeks burned red, but she furled her brow and growled in annoyance. Yang saw her golden eyes, and offered that same, understanding smile. Blake's posture relaxed a bit.

"Alright. I won't bore you with the back-story, which you should probably read in a history book anyways…"

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sad thing was, Blake had used to love cities.

She still had faded mental snapshots of the time her parents had taken them with her on their tour of the Four Kingdoms, flying in and out of a new metropolis every few days. She could remember the skyscrapers of Atlas' cities, being mystified by the way the towers seemed to rise to the sky itself. The winding streets of Vacuo's villages, almost labyrinthine in their complexity but teeming with life from every nook and cranny. Vale's timeless charm, its towns something out of half-remembered fairy tales. She loved them all, each in their own unique way, befriended them and imagined each had a mind and personality of its own. Strange and unfamiliar at first, but soon to be her omnipresent companions.

Now, as she shuffled nervously through the faunus ghetto, derelict and decaying buildings boxing her in, she hated them. She hated the narrow streets which could so easily turn into chokepoints, transform panicked crowds into stampeding masses. Plazas and courtyards were nice boxes for police to cordon them off, overflowing faunus apartment complexes like vertical refugee camps. She'd been to this city once before but now it was utterly alien, years of protests, riots, crackdowns and exoduses having changed its character irreparably. Now it was a city of broken glass and souls.

She stuck to close Adam, who was doing his best to remain calm and collected while his eyes darted from alley to alley, ready for an ambush by muggers (or worse). Blake knew he was rattled; his pace was unusually fast, he twitched at every distant _clang_ and _bang_. But he knew where they were going, was familiar with this patch of urban jungle, which was more than Blake could say.

It been… four, five weeks?.... since everything had gone to hell. Vale News Network had broken the story, had flashed the images of bloodied faunus to every screen in Remnant. Who did what to whom first was a question nobody would ever be able to answer, and everyone had already made their minds up anyways. Protests escalated into riots, policing transformed into counter-insurgency, torches and bombs replaced pamphlets and speeches. Blake and Adam had barely escaped the first of the crackdowns, fleeing truncheons and police sirens with nothing more than the clothes on their backs. They'd crashed with friends and sympathizers for the first few days, before it became apparent that few were willing to take the risk of housing members of the White Fang, and those few were rapidly dwindling. Anyone who might have helped them was already under police surveillance, if not worse, and soon the streets were the only home Blake and Adam could find. Never staying anywhere long, never giving names or making friends. Food begged, borrowed or stolen, but never enough in sufficient quantities.

It was Adam who said he'd found a solution. Blake believed him. Adam was the 'people' person, they'd say with a laugh, trying to take the sting out of their own official inhumanity. He was also older and better-connected than Blake, spent more time with the wrong (or right?) crowds. He had an address, an apartment in a faunus ghetto in a neighboring suburb, which was more than Blake did. They had neither the money nor the friends to get a proper ride so they'd set off on foot, faunus appendages concealed as best they could, playing the poor-but-in-love couple for anyone who glanced their way.

"These are friends of mine, so it's important that you get along with them," said Adam, as they came within sight of the building, a towering, brutalist public housing complex covered in revolutionary graffiti. His voice was firm and authoritative, though Blake had known him too long not to catch the note of apprehension. He wasn't in control here any more than she was. "We need them to like us. They can help our cause."

 _'They can keep us from starving,'_ Blake wordlessly translated. For the hundredth time of their journey Blake wondered just who these 'friends' of Adam were, but he remained infuriatingly tight-lipped. Petty criminals of some sort, she reasonably guessed, of the kind Adam didn't wholly approve of. He wouldn't have felt the need to keep secrets from her if these were faunus activists gone to ground; these were people Adam was turning to only out of desperation, and that left her with a sickening feel in her stomach.

The courtyard was almost empty apart from a few men who were obviously lookouts, guns poorly concealed in waistbands and coats. Adam slid down the hood of his sweater and Blake pulled off the toque on her head, wincing slightly as her feline ears unfolded.

"I'm Adam, here to see Sol," declared Adam, spreading his hands slightly in a non-threatening gesture.

"Sure you are, man," said one of the guards, a long, wispy tail poking out from a hole in his pants, but he gestured them forward anyway. They were stopped by a second lookout who insisted in frisking both of them, keeping the small switchblade Adam tucked up his sleeve for himself. Blake flushed with both fear and anger as the guard took advantage of her position to cop a feel, hands lingering over her breast and crotch. She caught Adam's gaze out of the corner of his eye, but a slight tilt of his head indicated she shouldn't make a scene. _Couldn't_ make a scene was probably more accurate, given their direness of their straits.

"Alright, go on up," said the guard in a bored tone of voice, once he was convinced Blake wasn’t hiding a blade between her ass cheeks.

The interior of the building was no more welcoming than the exterior, broken tiles and dead lights everywhere. Blake's initial reaction was disgust at the inhabitants who'd allowed it to get this way, but corrected that thought with a small shake of her head. The humans had stripped them of everything - savings, jobs, security - forced them to crowd into already overcrowded buildings. Ghettos like these formed tacit agreements with the nearby human polities - give us this space you already don't want, and we'll stay out of your way. Like a hundred little Menageries, easily cut-off from human society. Of course the police would still sweep in and break down doors if they knew White Fang revolutionaries had set up shop somewhere, but otherwise the humans kept their distance, content to let drugs and poverty destroy the faunus for them.

The elevator was working, to Blake's mild surprise, a small mercy saving them eighteen flights of stairs. The place was eerily quiet. They passed nobody in the halls, heard nothing from the apartments. Only when they approached room 1829 did Blake's ears pick up the sound of loud music and louder conversations. The music they were listening to was of the so-called faunus underground genre, rock and rap that sung ballads for the downtrodden. Back when she'd had the luxury of indulging in music Blake had never been a fan - by most objective standards the vocals and instrumentals both left much to be desired - but she'd been replaying them in her head more and more this past month. Half-remembered lyrics forming a mantra of rebellion, a chorus strummed with fingers a cry for revolution.

It was as if all the life in the apartment complex had been concentrated into a single sprawling flat. The door was wide open, and Adam crossed the threshold without invitation, Blake following close after. Music that had been distant at the end of a hall now rumbled through her core, bottles and joints sprawled across the floor like an offering to an old god of festivals. Bodies packed the room with the density of a nightclub, talking, flirting, threatening, laughing. Faunus of all shapes and sizes, more tails and antlers than she'd seen in one place since the last of the old protests. Even a few humans, she was pretty sure, though whether they were here out of camaraderie or desperation was another story.

"Hey, Adam, my man!" bellowed a voice through the crowd. Blake squinted - the flashing lights of numerous televisions and holograms wreaking havoc with her eyesight - before she spotted the man, 'Sol' in all likelihood. He had a solid foot of height on her and was as old as Adam and her combined, barrel-chested and balding, a gregarious smile on his face but weathered skin betraying a life of hardships. A second set of long, flappy ears spoke of his faunus heritage, his accent rural Mistrali. The crowd parted effortlessly for him and he clapped Adam hard on the shoulder; Blake did not miss how Adam bodily tensed. "Glad to see you in one piece! And whose this piece of candy you've got with you?"

With one smooth gesture he cupped Blake's chin in his hand, tilting her head up so his eyes bore into hers. She shook her head out of his grasp, instinctively taking a half-step back to shift into a fight-or-flight stance. Sol, apparently, took no offense, laughing heartily and turning his attention back to Adam.

"She's a precious one, ain't she? Time for that later. But please," he made an exaggerated bow, right arm swept out like a classical noblemen. "Make yourselves at home. Us faunus 'ave to stick together, don't we?"

Adam grunted some vague affirmation while Sol spun on his heels, the two newcomers trailing him cautiously. Some petty crime lord, Blake reckoned, racking her mind for half-remembered bits of information about the criminal underworld. If this guy was a real drug baron there'd be no way in hell he'd keep company like this. So nothing too fancy, probably product grown in Mistral and shipped over in small quantities, maybe with some shaved Dust crystals sprinkled in for good measure. If he kept his operations constrained to faunus neighborhoods the police wouldn't give him a second-thought, though that limited his opportunities for growth. Enough hired muscle to keep entrepreneurs from trying to set up shop on his turf, but not enough connections or lien to be a real threat to anyone. King of the Castle, however small his fiefdom was.

A beer bottle, already unscrewed, was pushed into Blake's hands. On a stomach as empty as hers she knew she shouldn't be drinking, but Adam had a bottle of his own and had already raised it to his lips. _Can't risk being seen as ungrateful._ Blake took a small sip, the taste crass on her tongue, but it did feel good to put something, _anything_ in her stomach. She glanced about the room but couldn't see any solid food.

By the time she returned her attention to Adam he was already deep in conversation with Sol. Gesticulating with both hands and speaking in soft but passionate tones. Blake could only make out every third word over the roar of the music, but she'd heard the story enough times to piece together the narrative Adam was selling. Faunus activists, doing everything they could to help the downtrodden. A fleeting reference to Blake's familial connections, as if they still carried any clout. Cruel and ruthless humans. A riot. A twist of his forearm to reveal a garish scar. The need to continue the fight, restore our honor, right the wrongs, reclaim our destiny. Adam believed only half of what he said, Blake knew, but he said it well, intertwining _logos_ and _pathos_ like an old Mistrali hair ribbon.

And Sol, Blake knew, was a good listener. A little surprising for someone who had absolutely no need to be. His body language reflected his interest, his expression appropriately concerned, he nodded at all the right cues. He interjected a word of inquiry at just the right moment, demonstrative of his engagement, though his eyes darted to Blake whenever Adam was looking elsewhere.

Sol was pulled away by someone else, giving Blake an opportunity to stop playing the wallflower. She slipped up to Adam, the now-empty beer bottle still held awkwardly in her hands.

"So?" asked Blake, her voice barely a whisper. She did her best not to look nervous, but the defensiveness of her posture was evident to anyone paying attention. "Do you trust him?"

"He says he can help us, and that's what matters," said Adam, taking a swig of his bottle in an attempt to appear nonchalant.

"He's a supporter?" asked Blake, her voice pitching upwards a little at the thought of finding an ally once again.

Adam crushed that thought with a disgusted snort. "Hardly," he said, shifting in place a little to make sure no one was too close to listen. "He wants power and money, same as everyone else. He'll even play nice with the humans if it means they let him keep his scraps."

"Then why-"

"Because he _does_ have money, and connections, and shelter, all of which we need right now," snapped Adam, his frustration finding an outlet. "Until we can figure out just what the hell is going on, whose in control of the White Fang…." He seemed to change tracks mid-thought. "We don't have any weapons, Blake. No safehouses, and apparently no allies. We stay here, get some money, keep an ear pressed to the ground. Then we get back in the fight."

Blake said nothing, a cauldron of emotions boiling within her, and she couldn't know which feeling she would give voice to if she spoke. She belatedly realized she was probably getting a contact high from all the fumes wafting through the air, that the nervous tingling beneath her skin was at least partially narcotic in origin, but there wasn't anything she could do about.

"So what does he want us to do?" asked Blake, finally, nervously toeing at a stamped-out cigarette on the floor beneath her.

"Nothing big," said Adam, though he was still unsure himself. "Playing lookout, probably, running stuff from one side of town to another. Nothing violent."

Blake relaxed a little, buying the promise even when there was no proof to underwrite it. She was not so naïve as to believe violence was never necessary, in the case of self-defence or in periods of extraordinary struggle. But she had no stomach for the revenge fantasies some of her fellow faunus harbored, of building a new world for themselves on the ashes of the human one. And the idea of committing violence for something as petty as lien…

"We. Are. In. Business, my man!" said Sol, reemerging from the crowd, scroll in hand. Adam's face remained stonily impassive, though Blake caught the way he sharply exhaled through his nose in relief. Adam's hand was subsumed in Sol's much-larger one in some approximation of a handshake, back-slapping and laughter to follow. "You're made of some fucking tough stuff, friend. Going to have you back fighting the good fight in no time." Blake now saw his words as nothing more than lip-service, but Adam murmured something in thanks. More laughter. "You wouldn't mind if I took your girl for a dance, would you?"

Adam said nothing, didn't even bother looking Blake in the eye as he gave an indifferent wave. Sol spun 'round with a speed surprising for his build and grabbed Blake by the wrist, yanking her unceremoniously into the heart of the crowd. Blake still clung to her beer bottle like it was some family heirloom, barely managing to keep up with Sol's spins and footwork.

To her surprise he didn't try to feel her up, or even press her against him, merely swapping out her empty bottle for a new one. After a couple of minutes Blake was bouncing to the music of her own accord, some of Sol's vivaciousness rubbing off on her. The beer took an edge off her nervousness, even if it was at the expense of her coordination.

Within a few minutes Sol had vanished, stranding her on a dance floor (such as it was) filled with hooves and paws. Within minutes she was repeating her story to a bear-faunus, an unfamiliar feeling of relief washing over her as she told and re-told her story. People cared, wanted to know more about how she'd been surviving these past few weeks, what the protests and riots had been like first hand. So Blake repeated her story again and again, censoring only the most incriminating of details. She was praised and congratulated, bottles and cans raised in toast to her bravery. Another bottle pushed her to the point of giddiness, exhilaration. There was so much life in this place, how could their cause possibly be dead?

There were no clocks and only boarded-up windows in the party flat, so Blake had no idea how long she'd been enmeshed with the crowd before a hand, gently but firmly, guided her out. Another faunus, this one perhaps thirty, male and with short, lupine ears. Blake wanted to protest, to say that there was _absolutely no way_ she could leave while they were still playing the Achieve Men, but her footwork was unsteady and the words tripped up in her mouth.

"Where's Adam?" she managed to ask, once they were out of the flat and back in the hallway. It was almost deafeningly quiet by comparison, every stumbled step echoing in her ears.

"Doing something with the Boss," replied her escort, unhelpfully. She couldn't remember the last time she'd see either.

"Where we goin'?"

"Just a place to lie down, girl, relax," said the man, chewing a toothpick as he spoke. Blake nodded. She wasn't blackout drunk but her thoughts were sluggish and haphazard. Lying down sounded good, and Adam had said this was shelter for them, anyways.

Two floors down they reached an apartment door, which the man ushered Blake into. It was tiny, scarcely larger than a jail cell, room for a bed and an incredibly cramped bathroom but very little else. Most faunus housing was built like this, Blake knew, not at all like Sol's spacious flat.

She sat on the edge of the twin bed, holding her head in her hands. The creak of the springs grated in her ears. There was a small window, though it faced only the imposing wall of its neighboring apartment tower, yet another grey monolith. The door closed behind her, and in the haze of alcohol Blake didn't even hear the small _click_ of a lock.

 _'Okay, think Blake, how much did you have to drink?'_ Five or six beers, maybe? Maybe more. Normally within her tolerance but she hadn't checked the proof on these. Faunus, she'd always been told, traditionally started drinking at a much younger age than the uptight humans who wrote the laws. Underage drinking was thus one of the easiest acts of rebellion, one Blake was begrudgingly familiar with. She usually drunk only enough to be polite, but still…

She opened the window and breathed the cool night air, clearing her head over the course of several minutes. Still clumsy and sluggish by her usual standards, but she was functioning. She knew the twitch in her leg was a reaction to everything that was being smoked around her, and would fade in a few minutes. Should she try to find Adam in the meantime? Neither of them had scrolls, but surely one of Sol's people knew where he was? Or should she just hang tight in this room, wait for her body to recuperate?

The answer was made for her when the door swung open. Sol stood at the doorway, peering in with exaggerated caution, before crossing the threshold.

"Blake, my girl, how're you holding up?" asked Sol, taking a seat on her bed and gesturing for her to follow suit. Blake complied, folding her hands neatly in her lap like she was some demure maiden.

Had she told him her name? Adam must have. Right.

"I'm okay," said Blake, nodding slightly as she spoke. Then she remembered her circumstances. "It's, um, very thoughtful for you to take us in."

"Taking care of people is what I do best, dear Blake," he said, sliding one hand around so it rested on her opposite shoulder. He rubbed the joint gently through the fabric of her sweater. "I know you can carry your weight around here, can't you?"

"Yes," said Blake, cautiously at first, slowly nodding. "Yes!" This time, with feeling.

"'Course you can, Blake. I know your man Adam can too. I take care of the people who work for me. Ask anyone, really." Sol clearly believed his own words, incorporated those thoughts into his self-image. He sought to craft an almost fatherly figure, a paternalistic don, like out of some romantic crime flick.

"I don't doubt it," said Blake. She was sweating. She didn't want to be talking to someone important, that was Adam's job. Certainly not while she was drunk, or at least buzzed. She'd had enough embarrassing incidents in her short life to know not to trust herself not to gaffe while imbibing. But she didn't stop herself. "So… so what do you want me to do?" Her ears twitched slightly as she spoke.

"I'll find some work for Adam in a couple of days, but in the meantime you gotta support the two of you, understand?" Blake nodded. "Food and drink don't grow on trees, much as I'd like it to." A hearty laugh from Sol, and a polite one from Blake. "So," he kneaded her shoulder with his thumb, "I need you to take care of some of my people for me, okay sweetie? You take care of my people, I take care of yours. That's pretty fair, wouldn't you say?"

Blake said nothing, her head swaying forward and backwards almost imperceptibly. Her stomach clenched. Part of her, some part of her, had known this was coming. It was logical, inevitable. Adam could run, fight, talk… but nothing that was as instantly monetizable as what nature had gifted Blake with. Of course.

Sol was peering into her eyes, perhaps waiting to see if she'd break down in tears of unleash a righteous fury. Is she did, Blake knew, they were done. He'd kick Adam and her to the street without a second thought. If Adam stuck with her after she cost them their shot at redemption… No. She'd couldn't risk that. They needed somewhere safe to hide, to recover, to rebuild. If that meant- 

"Sure," said Blake, the words coming out of her mouth almost unconsciously. "No problem." Her tone was flat, her expression dead, but it was enough. Sol, of course, would never think of himself as a sexual predator, saw himself as far too civilized as that. _This_ was a business arrangement between two rational adults.

Blake half expected him to move on her then and there, but he simply squeezed her shoulder and got to his feet. As he passed through the doorway Blake caught a glimpse of another figure, who after a few hushed words with the Boss entered the bedroom.

Blake eyed him, her breathing slow and deliberate. Broad-shouldered and well-muscled, sideburns and good teeth. Despite the years he obviously had on her she might have found him attractive, were it not for the atmosphere of their meeting. He closed the door behind them, leaving only shiver of moonlight to illuminate the room. From his features alone Blake couldn't tell if he was faunus, though the ease with which he moved in the dark pushed her to believe so.

"Hello," he said, his voice deep and surprisingly polite. It became apparent that he was expecting a response. Blake ran a hand through her hair.

"Hey there," she said, far more exhausted than flirty. He sat down on the bed beside her and began running his hands through her hair; Blake winced as tangles and knots were pulled on.

"You're kind of a mess, aren't you?" said the man, with a small chuckle. His tone was almost affectionate, though Blake's nose wrinkled at the smell of alcohol on his breath. Not that hers would be much better, of course.

"Been on the streets for a little while," murmured Blake quietly.

"Oh yeah, you're, uh, Adam's girl, right?" he said absent-mindedly. He was still playing with her hair. "Hey, Sol's a good guy, he'll take care of you, you understand? Better here than the streets, he always says."

"Better here," agreed Blake, with a dejected sigh. She straightened up, and in one fluid motion yanked off the hoodie she'd been wearing for weeks on end. The black T-shirt beneath it clung tightly to her chest, accentuating her still-developing breasts. The man's gaze immediately went there. Subtle.

"You mind if I'm on top?" He asked. Blake shook her head and lay back on the bed, fumbling with her jeans.

 _So this is how it's going to be._ The thought floated to the forefront of her consciousness as the man tugged down her jeans, tossing them to the room's not-so-far corner. For some reason, she'd always assumed it would have been with Adam. Not because she found him attractive or sexy or anything, but because there was no one else she could imagine doing it for the first time with.

 _What was that old line about the best laid schemes of mice and men?_ Blake couldn't remember, so she focused on the ceiling. It was tiled. Twelve tiles by sixteen tiles.

He began kissing her, sloppy presses up her throat and cheek. He made his way to her lips in due time, but when she didn't reciprocate he returned to her neck and down to her shoulder. She felt a small stirring between her legs, some automatic reflex of the flesh, but her mind was elsewhere.

 _What's twelve times sixteen?_ Mental math had never been Blake's strongest subject but she was passable enough. She felt the weight of The Man positioning himself atop her, sliding between her legs. _Twelve times twelve made one-hundred forty-four._

"Aah, slowly, please," groaned Blake, as he pushed inside her. It was neither as painful nor as pleasurable as she'd heard girls describe the sensation, more like a really weird stretch. The man grunted something and seemed to take his time going in, slowly sliding back and forth before driving inwards.

Blake let out a moan as he pushed all the way into her, rocking back and forth. He used one of his arms for balance and support, while his free hand slipped beneath her T-shirt and grabbed a breast. Another wave of discomfort cascaded through Blake as he pushed the bra off her breasts and began stroking the sensitive skin directly. _But not a lot of pain._ She dug a nail into the flesh of her thumb.

 _'12 times 12 is 144 meaning you still need to add on four twelves.'_ His pace accelerated, oscillating back and forth at a sharper tempo, her pussy clenched tight around his dick. Teeth broke skin on Blake's lip and she tried to focus all her mental energy on that physical sensation. No good. But he'd withdrawn his hand from her shirt, for whatever reason.

He pulled out abruptly, the sensation of sudden withdrawal sending a shiver up Blake's spine. For a brief moment she thought he was done, had finished without the explosive climaxes she'd glimpsed on sites on her Scroll. Back when she'd had a Scroll. "Get on your hands and knees," he said gruffly, dashing her hopes that in the grand scheme of things this wasn't too bad. Blake wordlessly complied.

The new position was worse. The give of the mattress unsteadied her; she couldn't seem to find a good place for her hands. The Man's hands were positioned firmly on either side of her hips and he seemed to thrust with newly-found vigor. "That's it, come on girl, push into me," he barked, as his thighs bounced into her ass.

 _'Four times twelve is forty-eight, so one-forty-four plus forty-eight is going to be-'_ Blake winced as a dull pain spread between her legs, _'one-eighty plus twelve, so one-hundred and ninety-two.'_ Minus the nine tiles that were missing to make room for a small ceiling fan. So 183. 183 tiles.

She felt something hot inside her, realized his labored breathing and the slowing of his pumps meant he'd probably reached his climax. He stayed in Blake for several seconds, flexing slightly, before pulling out again. Blake let out a soft gasp. She flopped on her stomach, head resting on the bed's small pillow.

"Wouldn't kill you to smile a bit, you know," said the man, as he fumbled his way into his clothes again. Blake didn't remember seeing him undress. "Get more repeat customers that way. Less weirdos off the street."

Given their circumstances, it was not entirely terrible advice, Blake thought. Clean enough, not violent, didn't have any-

"Oh shit!" swore Blake, "You didn't use a condom."

The man let out a nervous chuckle. "You didn't ask," he said, trying to sound matter-of-fact but clearly a little embarrassed.

"Fuck!" swore Blake, running both hands through her hair. "How could I be so _fucking_ stupid."

"I'm, uh, clean, if that's what you're worried about," said the man, though Blake knew better then to take him at his word. Her heart was beating faster than any point in the night so far. "And if you're worried about, um, me coming, I know Sol's got a stash of pills upstairs somewhere that'll take care of that."

Blake left out the tiniest gasp of relief, then returned to mentally berating herself.

"So, uh, you're pretty new at this, eh?" asked the man, still fumbling with his belt. Why he thought this was a good time to make small talk was beyond Blake's comprehension, but it snapped her out of her cognitive paralysis nonetheless.

"Yeah," she said, as her breathing slowed. She'd metabolized the bulk of the alcohol by now, and adrenaline handled the remainder. The shock of her experience was wearing off, returning most of her mental faculties. "First time, in fact," she said, unable to keep the salt from her tone.

"First time working as a… or you mean…" he glanced at Blake, locked eyes with her, and it clicked in his head. "Oh, first like, _first_ first…." 

"Yup," said Blake, with a bitter sigh.

"Oh. Oh shit. Shit." He ran a hand through his sideburns, cursing like he'd just rear-ended a parked car. He fumbled around for his wallet and pulled out a twenty lien note, pressing it forcefully into her hands. "Keep it for yourself," he said, his voice flush with sincerity, before he stumbled his way to the door.

Blake stood there in silence for several minutes, twirling the note in her hands. Through a quirk of evolution the sense of smell is the sense most associated with memory, and Blake's olfactory capabilities were far greater than most. The note smell like old books. Like an old library, or the den of her….

She dismissed the thought, glancing about for her jeans before deciding against getting dressed. She idly wondered if Sol would send more of his men down to her, but the hallway outside had been utterly silent since her first had left. The Boss was probably easing her in. She put the lien on a small plywood shelf bolted into the wall and slipped out of her top.

The bathroom was even more cramped than the bedroom, space for a shower and a small sink, and about nothing else. The water pressure was shit but at least it was hot. Blake glanced around but her new home - if that's what this was meant to be - had neither soap nor shampoo. She had to content herself with letting the steaming water wash over her. She cupped a hand between her legs, doing the best to wash out vagina, but she knew it was futile. At least her hair was fairly clean for the first time in weeks. She'd come close to hacking it down to a pixie cut a few nights ago.

Blake finally shut the taps, watching the water circle around the already-clogging drain. A problem for another time. Only when she turned around did she take note of the shower curtain for the first time. Instead of a drab off-white color, or something transparent, it was aggressively kid-friendly, larger-than-life bumblebees against a vibrant blue sky. Why the room's one bit of character should be in the form of kid's shower curtain was a mystery that briefly baffled Blake.

Adam was in the room by the time she reentered. He looked haggard, more tired than she'd seen him since they'd been forced to flee. But he'd regained his quiet confidence, the cold and calculating edge of his mind on display once again.

"Hello, Blake," he said, his tone oddly formal. Blake was still nude, using her old T-shirt to towel off in the absence of a proper cloth, but Adam's gaze didn't linger on her. "Are you alright?"

"I'll be fine," replied Blake coolly, sidestepping a question she herself couldn't answer. "Shower's free."

"Thanks. I really need it," said Adam. He slid past her without another word, and soon Blake heard the faucet spring to life.

She lay on the bed again, flat on her back, staring up at the ceiling tiles and the shitty electric fan. She glanced at the shelf, and realized distantly that the note of lien, the note that smelled like old books, was gone. Adam must have taken it, though the expected pang of resentment was absent.

She counted the tiles in her head and thought of the bumblebees.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Fuck, Blake," said Yang, after her girlfriend's voice had trailed off for the last time. "Oh, fuck."

Somewhere between the beginning and the end of the story Yang had ended up behind Blake, though she couldn't remember exactly when they made the transition, her arms gently encircling the faunus' waist while Blake leaned back against her, facing Weiss' empty bed across from her. It was easier than having to look at her partner as she spoke.

Yang was crying, she could tell, tears streaking down her cheeks as she squeezed Blake in her most possessive hug. Blake's neck was wet by time Yang pulled away. As much as Blake had thought she'd have been a wreck by the end of things it was her partner who needed support the most, possessing none of the coping mechanisms Blake had developed over the years. To Blake, it was an old story, a wound long-since scarred over. To Yang…

"Oh, gods, I'm sorry, Blake," croaked Yang, as the faunus gently maneuvered her to the pillow. Blake shook her head and smiled, kissing Yang's wet cheeks. "You… that your first time was _rape_." Even through her soft cries, the note of fury was clear in Yang's voice.

"I wasn't raped, Yang," said Blake, with odd defensiveness. Blake had never thought of it that way, to her own surprise. "Nobody put a gun to my head or anything like that." Though admittedly some of her clients hadn't been particularly considerate of her directives.

"They forced you to have sex or starve. That's not… that's not _okay_ Blake. That's not a real choice."

The faunus couldn't think of a proper response to that. 'Rape' in her mind was something that involved back alleys and knives, not petty cash and improvised brothels. When survival was her day-to-day objective she wasted little energy thinking about right and wrong. And once it was behind her she tried to think nothing of it at all. So she said the only thing that came to mind. "I'm here now," murmured Blake, cozying up beside Yang so she could rest one hand atop her heaving chest. "You don't have to apologize, Yang, none of this is your fault."

She let out a choked laugh. "It's the Patch Islander in me, I know. People say we're always saying 'sorry' for stuff we didn't do. I'm normally pretty good about it." Yang sniffled, noisily. "I just… I want to make it up to you. To give you back the time."

"It was only a couple of months," said Blake, though it had certainly seemed like an unending Purgatory at the time. "We scraped together enough lien and Adam got us back in the White Fang underground." Her stomach clenched a little at that, a wound far fresher and sorer.

It was unsurprising that that did little to assuage Yang, so she took to lapping up her partner's tears, cat-like licks across the blonde's cheeks. "I probably shouldn't tell you this," said Blake with a grin, "but your tears are actually kind of tasty."

Yang smiled at that and enveloped Blake in a bear hug once more, squeezing her so tightly Blake let out a gasp of surprise.

"I'm never letting go again," promised Yang, burying her face in Blake's neck. She could be so like her sister at times.

"Well, it'll be fun to see you explain that to Ruby and Weiss," teased Blake.

"Don't care," retorted Yang, her bone-crushing hug somehow getting tighter. "I bet I can go the whole night without letting go of you."

"I'll take that bet," said Blake with a grin. Yang shuffled slightly, so Blake's head came to a rest on the brawler's chest, rising and falling with every breath.

She hoped she lost.


	3. Weiss - The Better Part of Valor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weiss attends a camp for the children of Remnant's elite, and engages in a secretive rebellion.

"Pretty much since puberty," answered Ruby with a grin, as she unscrewed part of Crescent Rose's trigger mechanism. "Pass me the hydrospanner please. No, the black one."

Beacon Academy's Weapons Education class came with a twice-monthly supervised trip to The Forge, shorthand for a cavernous workspace with every tool and part a Huntress could ask for. Most students, of course, made a trip of their own volition to The Forge maybe once or twice a year for a minor tune-up or modification. Ruby had already spent thrice as much time here as the library, gym and freshman lounge combined.

Weiss sat next to Ruby on a handcrafted wooden stool, watching without really understanding as her partner mucked about in the inner workings of her sniper-scythe. While Crescent Rose's exterior was a testament to aesthetic design, its underbelly was an incomprehensible kaleidoscope of gears, screws, springs and levers. How Ruby kept track of the hundreds of whirring parts was beyond the heiress.

Weiss' own weapon, Myrtenaster, sat propped against Ruby's workstation, untouched. It was sealed off by design, making easy modification all-but-impossible, and even Ruby was hesitant about tinkering with its elegant perfection. So with very little to do she was content to banter with her Leader. Being the mistress of her own domain gave Ruby an atypical confidence in their conversations, their weapons' histories giving them an excuse to talk about their own lives in turn.

' _So when did you realize you were gay?_ ' Weiss had asked, in what she had hoped was a logical transition from one topic to the next. Ruby had raised an eyebrow in mild perplexity, but given no indication that the topic unsettled her. It came out in any conversation more than thirty minutes long, really, Ruby apparently completely fearless of what people would think of her for her pride in her orientation.

"Hm. It must have been nice, having such clarity so early on."

"I guess?" replied Ruby, in that tone of not-quite-understanding-but-going-along-with-you. "I mean, Patch is a pretty cool place. Nobody really cared one way or the other." Weiss let out a vague _hmm_ , which Ruby intuited was a cue. "So, um, different in Atlas?"

"Different for a Schnee, yes," replied Weiss, starring into Crescent Rose. _Dust_ , it was like one of those comically-intricate clocks they only made in remote mountain villages that cost ten thousand lien a piece and are individually named. She'd had one in her bedroom growing up.

"Yeah, I know it's…different… in the other Kingdoms," said Ruby with unusual tact, using a pair of tweezers to extract some sub-performing component.

The tact left her in an instant. "Ooooh, is that why you didn't want to talk about your 'first time'?" asked Ruby, her tone almost giddy with excitement. "I know a lot of gay girls go out with boys 'cuz it's kind of what you're expected to do, and you feel like you'll eventually feel the right way, 'cuz you think you don't feel the right way right now?" Crescent Rose was suddenly forgotten, dinner plate-sized eyes peering into Weiss' soul. "I'm not going to be all grossed if your first time was with a guy."

"That is _not_ what happened!" said Weiss, her voice rising a little too loudly, suddenly audible over the _whirr_ of nearby machinery. She dropped down to an angry whisper. "And I would appreciate you not insinuating so!"

Ruby let out a frightened _eeeep_ and busied herself with her far-less-dangerous gun. Weiss let out a sigh, annoyed at how quickly Ruby was melting her frosty exterior again.

"Just so you don't dream up any lurid fantasies I'm going to tell you this for the record. But you don't tell Blake, you don't tell Yang, and you _certainly_ don't tell Jaune. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," Ruby practically whimpered. And for all her Leader's childishness, Weiss believed her. The fact that she and Ruby were dating was known or suspected by anyone at Beacon who cared to listen to the gossip, but Ruby herself, for all her boundless enthusiasm, had at Weiss' request become the paragon of discretion. If anyone tried to suggest otherwise Weiss could confidently assert that she was the victim of an ugly smear campaign, and no one but Blake or Yang had a shred of proof otherwise. She had no desire to see push come to shove, but the fact that Ruby had managed to keep it a secret from _Yang_ until Weiss had let her in spoke volumes to her trustworthiness.

"I want to begin with the disclaimer that this is in no way like the fairy tales of romance you're used to, so I don't want to hear any complaints at the end."

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Schnees did not 'go camping'.

 _Camping_ , her father had once explained to her, over the soft clinks and scrapes of silverware on china, was something families that didn't have enough money did. They tried to distract themselves, forget about the pointlessness of their existences by trekking out to some unfamiliar biome, pretended they were communing with nature or whatever the hippie flavor of the month was. They deluded themselves into thinking that asceticism was somehow a virtue, in order to rationalize their own material poverty. It was sad, in its own way, but Weiss of course should not deprive the lesser-off of their coping mechanisms.

Schnees did, however 'go to camp'.

Of course, Camp Arkta was a camp the same way the Schnee Dust Company was a family-run enterprise and Huntresses were in the animal control industry. Drop in Ruby and Yang - the survivors of many a camp trip - and they'd recognize the remoteness, the communal dorms, and absolutely nothing else. Located on a private island southeast of the Atlasian mainland, Camp Arkta benefited from the tail end of the Mistrali trade winds, making it borderline tropical in temperature, with the added benefit of being accessible only by private air or watercraft. Camp Arkta, the website pleasantly noted, was a "media-free zone".

It was, as had been explained to Weiss innumerable times, really more a networking event than anything else. It gave the plutocrats of Remnant an opportunity to pay lip service to old-fashioned values of self-reliance and physical struggle, but mostly it was a playdate for rich sons and rich daughters, a meet-and-greet for the elite of the next generation. None of them would ever truly be friends - their world was far too cutthroat to allow such luxuries - but alliances and synergies could be identified, strengths and weaknesses assessed, and jokes about plebes exchanged without worrying about a nearby hot mic.

Weiss Schnee knew all this, of course, and had every intention of fulfilling her duties. Heiress of the Schnee Dust Company was not a position she shouldered lightly, and the opportunities Camp Arkta presented were valuable indeed. But there was another reason, one she was hesitant to admit even to herself, why she was excited to go.

Tarah Eresia.

Weiss remained utterly unmoved as she supervised the packing of her 'camping gear' - bought from the same boutiques that sold designer sweat pants and exercise gear envisioned on fashion runways - but her heart skipped a beat. Tarah Eresia. Soft, quiet, gentle Tarah. She lacked the steely edge needed to inherent her corporate empire in southern Vale, would probably be shuffled off to a quiet life of luxury while more capable relatives took her spot. But this year, at least, her family still saw the value in sending her off to Arkta once more, for which Weiss let out a silent prayer.

It had been Tarah who had introduced her to poetry, or rather the kind of poetry she hadn't memorized by rote lest she ever appear uncultured. Tarah showed her the poetry of the Mistrali warrior-women, who centuries ago had recorded epics of love and lust from the archipelago they had been exiled to. Poetry that put to words thoughts Weiss could barely conceptualize, who through lyric verse held a mirror to a part of herself she was so hesitant to face.

For two years, Weiss had known she was homosexual. Gay. Lesbian. Whatever term she used would be equally unacceptable, so she lied by omission. Month after month, whenever a distant relative would teasingly inquire as to whether any man had caught Weiss' eye, she would casually remark that she wasn't interested in boys. That was true enough. They would laugh at her, promise her that it was only a matter of time before she started seeing things the other way. A male relative would usually interject at that point, insisting that they would personally ensure that any potential boyfriend of Weiss' would meet their impossibly high standards. Weiss would laugh politely at this, and then the conversation would move on, her apathy for menfolk forgotten in a minute. Given the emphasis her family placed on tradition and propriety, everyone was quietly relieved that Weiss appeared to be an extremely sensible young lady.

For the longest time, Weiss had actually thought that they were right. She understood the concepts of puberty and hormones well enough, even sexual attraction, if only as an abstraction. She accepted that some day she would feel the urge to kiss boys, just as she would feel the urge to have children some day, like she'd always been told. She'd never been fond of boys growing up, all machismo and bravado, but certainly the female character in every film and book she ever saw couldn't be wrong, could she?

The…. _feelings_ (for lack of a better word)… she began to feel around women crept up on her gradually, the way an icicle slowly formed, growing and growing until a critical mass was reached and it all came crashing down. She felt herself beneath the sheets, running over erogenous zones again and again. By the second time it happened she realized she was masturbating, another one of those understood-in-theory concepts. Well, she understood in practice quickly enough, too. Even the perfunctory sexual education the traditions of her family allowed her supplied her with enough details to know that masturbating to her classmates was wrong. Particularly if she went to an all-girls school.

Tarah. Whether she'd sensed something in Weiss, some nonverbal clue, or simply made an extraordinarily lucky guess, had opened her eyes. Weiss' understanding of homosexuality was fragmentary at best, veiled references to 'deviants' and 'buggery' overheard in adult conversations. The etymology of slurs and insults by students of lesser upbringings than hers. The pieces were all there, but like a shattered crystal of Dust Weiss couldn't put them together. She needed Tarah for that, and it was the first debt she felt she truly owed another human.

Weiss' plane, one of the small personal aircraft the family maintained for the occasional jaunt, touched down on the island's runway, the pilot landing with preternatural smoothness, even buffeted by the trade winds. A small party of staffers from Arkta were on-hand to meet her, to make sure she never lifted a finger unloading her bags. A 'Camp Counselor' - a thirty-something man who was a career development advisor by profession - escorted her to a luxury SUV, holding open the door for her before speeding deeper into the island.

He offered the usual gracious welcoming, though Weiss could tell in an instant that he was here for lien and lien alone. The vast majority of people in her life were, she knew, a reality she had long since resigned to. For enough money people would be kind and polite to you, for even more they'd pretend to be your friend, to exert their emotions in some simulacrum of camaraderie and moral support. Her father had long taught her to avoid such indulgences whenever possible, it was a slippery slope that easily morphed into full-blown self-delusion. Weiss had taken that lesson to heart.

She was a special case even in a camp full of anomalies, set apart by name and appearance both. Sideways glances were exchanged as she crossed the campgrounds, inquiries murmured and rumors swapped with lightning efficiency. Weiss paid them little heed. She'd find the ones she'd needed to meet, promise and threaten. What they thought of her was of little concern.

The Camp Director went over the introductory materials with her personally, noting the Camp's unblemished safety record, the non-disclosure agreements every staffer had signed. Despite his nominal role as an administrator he was a psychologist by training, would edit and consolidate the evaluations to be send back to each child's parent. Which were natural leaders and which broke under pressure, which worrying personality traits should be rectified at the earliest convenience. It was the worst when parents sent siblings, when his assessments could elevate one to the pinnacle of power and the other to a life of obscurity. Weiss knew her own sister had attended once, years prior, and idly wondered what the Camp's assessment of Winter had been.

Weiss, like a few of the smarter campers, knew the nature of the game, and knew how to win. To play well with others without becoming dependent upon them, to be a leader without alienating her followers, to carry herself with dignity and refinement even in what she'd been told was inviolable privacy. She watched the Director as he watched her, saw the assessment he was writing in his mind with each veiled question and invitation to comment.

She'd arrived shortly before dinner, a meal which made a mockery of any pretense of rusticity. Chefs from Atlas and Vacuo, preparing meals that would not be out of place in any fine dining establishment in Remnant. Fresh fish, tenderly-cooked meat, gourmet cheese. There were, Weiss had once absently noted, no vegetarians in their midst.

She introduced herself to her tablemates with a boilerplate statement, an almost verbatim recitation of the PR-friendly profile of her maintained on the Schnee Dust Company website. Singer, dancer, swordsman. She got bored just repeating the drivel. Anyone worth knowing already knew exactly who she was. Anyone who didn't would be chum soon enough.

An unfamiliar warmth spread through Weiss when she finally spotted Tarah, several tables away, fork and knife scraping at some meat dish with the delicacy of an artist. She'd developed since last year ( _and why_ exactly _was that the first thing you noticed, Weiss Schnee?_ ), breasts she'd could easily become envious of, sandy blond hair falling halfway down her back, like waves in the sea. She didn't know if she was being actively watched, but the beauty of the panopticon was that she always had to assume she was. Something as blatant as a wave or a shout would be noticed and jotted down, inquiries quietly made into how this girl cracked the Ice Queen's shell. Weiss idly contemplated fucking with them, feigning a bonhomie with some random dude from last year, but decided the costs of such a prank probably outweighed the benefits. She'd been raised to think like an economist, and a very good one she became.

So she did little more than lock eyes with Tarah and flare her eyebrows, a swift up-and-down bob that went unnoticed by all but its recipient. Tarah smiled coyly and returned to her plate, though Weiss could've sworn that she saw her lick her lips first. That problematic heat between her legs returned.

They spoke for the first time later that evening, upon Weiss' assignment to Thule Cabin. Once again, 'cabin' proved to be an accurate descriptor only in the broadest of definitions, it was more like a luxury hotel room that just happened to be naturally themed. The only real difference from a hotel, in fact, was that there were twenty of them to a Cabin. The early curfew - eight in the evening - was enforced mostly as an excuse to give the campers more time to network ('socialize'), though between televisions and game consoles they could occupy their time in a myriad of other ways. Weiss and Tarah exchange pleasant greetings as another counselor gave her a tour of the cabin, Weiss showing just the right amount of interest and cordiality that was due. She flashed Tarah a polite smile, the kind the counselor would note was the same photogenic expression they'd all been taught to display to the cameras. No undo warmth to report, no sir.

They spoke for a second time as night truly descended on the camp and the counselors had left them nominally unsupervised. Weiss didn't think they'd go so far as to place cameras and microphones in the Cabin, though not out of any sense of proprietary. More likely parents worried their children would be recorded saying (or doing) things that could be used against them. The counselors would be smart enough to keep a private record of anything that could be used as leverage down the road.

Weiss and Tarah, both new arrivals, drifted towards the half-dozen unclaimed beds at the end of the room, nearest the bathrooms. Weiss made a point of conversing with anyone who was anyone, before making polite noises of fatigue and retreating to her bed. It was only a double, which was spartan in someone's book. A suitcase containing most of her personal affects - makeup, shower kit, the bulk of her clothing - had already been brought in for her, leaving only the unpacking to her. The counselor would note her bed choice the following morning, would suggest in a comment in the margins that the Schnee heiress was likely making a point of not playing favorites by bedding next to the Eresia girl. The heiresses and scions of actually powerful families would be left with no better insight into Weiss' inclinations as a result.

Misdirection was a wonderful thing to have taught to you at a young age.

Weiss was filing her nails when Tarah began changing into her pajamas, a silk sleeping gown with a tasteful white trim. Why she hadn't used the bathroom like a _proper_ lady was a question a few girls posed, but then again this was _Tarah Eresia_ they were talking about. Those with connections to Vale reported that she didn't have the grit for command, that her social ineptitude had already disqualified her. She was being sent to Arkta as a last-ditch effort, before her father cut his losses and invested in more promising offspring.

None of those thoughts, however, were running through Weiss' mind as Tarah's impromptu impropriety unfolded. Bare, beautiful skin. She distantly reminded Weiss of the maidens of Atlas' epic poems of old, a warm but sturdy beauty one would find in a mead hall of legendarium. She was larger than Weiss, fuller in figure and thus more distant from the feminine ideal of the dominant aesthetic, but Weiss herself scarcely noticed. Muscles in her arms and legs were testament to an exercise regime likely harsher than Weiss' own. Tarah was a mountaineer, Weiss remembered, and Camp Arkta must have seemed like such a mockery to her.

Weiss didn’t realize she was staring until Tarah's sly grin called her out on it. A few other girls in Thule Cabin noticed it, too, but would erroneously conclude that Weiss' shock was rooted in distaste rather than awe. Chalk one up for mirror-image bias.

' _I'm being teased_ ,' thought Weiss, as she tried to refocus on her nails. For some reason, though, she didn't feel irritation or annoyance like she usually would have, but…. pleasure? Excitement? Tarah was displaying herself to Weiss, however fleetingly, hoping to get a reaction and taking pleasure in eliciting it. Weiss would've scowled were she not so pleased. It was the first time someone from the _right_ team was flirting with her.

They engaged in small talk until consensus dictated the lights be turned off for the night. They exchanged irrelevant information, mostly, about schools and politics, a kind of dance the children were expected to always be able to perform with one another. Talk of money and regulations taking the place of footwork, sentences about family pets and yachts where hands would've intertwined. But for once, Weiss didn't mind dancing.

The next few days passed almost interchangeably. Three meals a day, each a feast unto itself. Daily seminars on esoteric topics, like pre-War metaphysics, designed to assess their analytical abilities more than actually educate. Enough physical exercise that everyone sweat, but nobody bled. (They'd all go home proud of the calluses and bruises, like badges from a war). And many, _many_ hours when they were confined to a pool, or a recreation hall, or some other cramped venue and left to their own devices.

Swimming quickly became Weiss' preferred activity, sometimes in one of the heated pools, but more often than not in the open waters themselves, as was Tarah's unspoken preference. Weiss' own fashionable swimwear confined her by design to little more than gentle strokes; Tarah was uninhibited in her one-piece. She had a bikini, too, which she would sometimes simply lounge around in, her generous cleavage open to discrete ogling. But Weiss decided she liked tennis too, with its short skirts and passionate cries. Or archery, and the way Tarah's muscles emerged as she notched an arrow in a bowstring.

The Counselors spent so much time worrying the girls would try to rendezvous with the boys on the other side of the island, they spent almost no time at all wondering what could happen between them.

It was the morning of the fifth day when things… changed. The point where Weiss stopped bending and started breaking. Weiss awoke by force of habit at six in the morning Atlas Standard Time, one of the few campers who did not take advantage of the invitation to slothfulness they were subtly offered. Tarah was awake even before she was, sitting with her legs crossed and her hands resting gently on her knees, watching through a window as the sun rose over choppy waters. The pose was almost meditative in nature, so much so that Weiss was hesitant to interrupt, but Tarah's gentle smile assuaged her immediately.

In a moment of strength or weakness - Weiss was never able to figure out which - she raised a hand to brush Tarah's cheek, a gesture so soft the touch barely registered. But she saw Tarah's eyes alight, and knew hers were in turn, an electric charge running through her. Deliberate contact, not the fleeting brushes and rubs their physical activities sometimes provided them, was so much more…. so much something. Meaningful? Powerful? Erotic?

Weiss would've repeated the gesture had Tarah not swept the room with her eyes. The Vale woman herself cared little if she was spotted - she had long since accepted that neither her intellect nor psyche were suited to the kind of leadership expected of her - but she knew Weiss did. Cared, and would care, once the novelty of the sensations she was experiencing became understood and thus manageable.

Weiss' head swiveled about as she swept the room with blinding efficiency. No one else was awake, no sleeping head even turned in her direction. Relief, immediately followed by shame. That she should be so shallow, that what she felt for Tarah had to be a dirty little secret. Tarah knew what Weiss felt, and understood. She smiled, forgiveness given flesh.

"If you like," she murmured, speaking the words as if she was reciting one of those Mistrali poems again, "you can follow me in a minute."

Weiss watched as Tarah collected her bathroom supplies and slipped into the bathroom, sashaying as she did. Weiss almost sputtered. She went through the motions of checking her Scroll and her appearance, ears attuned to the slow breaths of her slumbering cabin mates, before following Tarah into the bathroom.

There were eight shower stalls and a bathtub in the so-called Thule 'Cabin', each stall walled off, accessible through a door of opaque glass. Weiss closed the bathroom's door behind her, only to be transfixed by the image of Tarah, glad only in a white towel that stopped far north of her knee.

"It's considered rude to keep a lady waiting," Tarah said. Weiss was left uncharacteristically without a retort, lips forming letters that were never spoken, causing the other girl to laugh with mirth. Tarah slipped into one of the stalls. Only in the eerie silence of the morning did Weiss here the sound of cloth hitting tile.

Had she been given enough time to think, Weiss would've been paralyzed with self-doubt. She _liked_ Tarah, that much was obvious, Tarah who was warm and loving and understanding in a world where so few souls were. She knew she would never rise to the lofty heights Weiss and her ilk would, but carried herself with dignity rather than despair. There was a quiet strength in that, in a virtue Weiss had never been taught to prize. What Tarah saw in Weiss was a question the heiress would only ask herself when her brain was functioning more normally. Wealth and power were potent aphrodisiacs, so the old axiom went, but Tarah surely knew she could have neither of Weiss', so that was out. Weiss was kinder and politer to her than the other girls of the Camp, true, but compared to whatever common folk Tarah came across the heiress would still be cold and distant in contrast. Weiss could carry a conversation with her on more abstract topics than the other girls were apt to, but you didn't lust after someone who read the same dead poets as you did, surely? Or was it merely the scarcity of options, the realization that it was Weiss or nobody?

But at that very moment, in the bathrooms of Thule Cabin at the crack of dawn, Weiss hadn't had release in over a week, and she was in a veritable bazaar of temptation. So she didn't self-doubt or psychoanalyze. She walked into a distant stall, spun the shower on, stepped out, closed the door behind her, and walked into Tarah's.

Tarah was naked. A towel pooled on the floor by her feet. _Tarah was naked in the shower with Weiss_. Weiss would've hyperventilated had she been able to draw breath. Hands at her side, breasts on display, hair - slightly wet - cascading down her back. Feet slightly apart, gaze held high, unafraid. There was a codex in the Schnee family library containing a manuscript illustrating one of the oral poems of Atlasian lore. The page where the maiden Modþryð is held captive in the monster's den, stripped naked by its savageness but unbowed and unflinching. If the old monk who'd illustrated it had ever had a muse, Tarah must have been her reincarnation.

"This might be easier if you take your clothes off," murmured Tarah, her voice muffled by the torrent of rain spouting from the faucet. The loud creek of the bathroom's door would alert them should another camper enter, but they was cautious nonetheless.

Weiss hurried to comply, chest rising and falling as the excitement of undressing before someone - _for_ someone - coursed through her. As the last scraps of clothing were removed and laid on a wooden bench inside the stall, Weiss found she was covering herself, breast and crotch, with her arms. To someone more experienced the gesture might have been made flirty, like a stripper's faux modesty, but Weiss was almost hunched over herself. She realized what she was doing a moment too late to save herself from embarrassment. From Tarah's wryly amused expression. From the grin and cocked eyebrow that Weiss… loved?

She straightened her posture and let her arms fall limply to her sides. She thought herself not much to look at, compared to the actresses and models she subconsciously graded herself against. She wondered what Tarah's preferences were. Did she like girls taller or shorter than her? Long hair or pixie cuts? Makeup? Voluptuous breasts or none at all? If Weiss had been asked to create a feminine ideal in her mind, cutting-and-pasting features into one gestalt form of perfection, it would have looked nothing like Tarah. But she wanted Tarah more than anything in Remnant.

Tarah slipped her hands around Weiss' waist, pulling her closer but not under the stream of warm water. It mostly splashed off Tarah's back, stray droplets pelting the heiress.

The kiss was their second, the first having been hastily stolen a year before between the trees. It had been amateurish, lips unsure of how much pressure to apply, hands fumbling awkwardly, a tongue blindly guessing at what its role was. Over far too fast and never discussed again.

Weiss got it right the second time. She'd spent the intervening year actually paying attention to how the male and female protagonists kissed at the ends of movies, even if they themselves did nothing for her. The principle, she was glad to discover, was pretty much the same. A careful, deliberate press, to make sure she hadn't overstepped her bounds. Repeated thrice, growing more confident in each iteration. Tarah was slightly too tall for Weiss to kiss on the lips without straining her neck, so Weiss moved to her cheek, then her neck, each a unique sensation. Their bodies pressed together, legs against legs, hands in hands, building off the other.

Tarah guided Weiss' hands to her breasts, where the Snow Angel had feared to tread. The feeling was interesting, true, though Weiss was vaguely disappointed that she didn't seem to get the same kind of pleasure out of it as men did when they groped and fondled. She found butt cheeks far more to her liking, though, and Tarah grinned approvingly as Weiss felt lower and lower. She herself slipped a hand between Weiss' legs, the lightest of touches lighting a fire inside her.

"Why?" murmured Weiss, an unconscious thought bursting to the forefront of her consciousness just as more advanced cognitive capabilities seemed ready to vanish altogether. Tarah raised an eyebrow, but did not stop her ministrations, the feel of her touch so different than when Weiss did it herself. "Is this… love?" How idiotic that question would sound when she was left alone with her thoughts, angry by the ease at which her emotions had escaped from her, could have ruined everything.

" _I hate the word_ ," Tarah whispered in Weiss' ear, startling her back to reality. As far as Weiss could remember, Tarah never hated anything. "Love. We throw it about like it is a label to be affixed. Like we can separate what we love and don't into convenient categories. A binary, a variable." She shook her head, like a disappointed philosopher. "Did the poet Izmiri, in all her writings, ever use the word 'love'?" Weiss shook her head, softly. "Of course not. It's a horrible compression of such a multitude of emotions and experiences. Like love is a thing that can be proven to exist or not, a force measured with newtons in a lab. We use the same word to describe our feelings for our children and our cars." Another angry snort. "Love should not be expressed with something as simplistic as a noun."

Weiss said nothing, and Tarah's fingers slid back and forth across her. Were such thoughts cynical? Nihilistic? Bitter? Transcendent? But the time for philosophical exploration is not when you're grinding your clitoris against a woman's hand, as Weiss was soon to discover.

"I want to make you happy," groaned Weiss, her hands sliding to Tarah's thighs even as the woman slipped a finger inside her.

"That, my angel, is all there is to it," whispered Tarah in response, as a combination of fingertips and knuckles caused Weiss to let out a stifled gasp. She let Weiss down to the tiled floor as gracefully as was possible, the heiress' back pressed to the wall. Weiss' knees shook as Tarah applied both hands to her, a finger on either side of the vulva while the other hand slipped fingers within. Weiss had never pressed deep within herself, but Tarah was too careful for the sensation to be painful, studying every twitch of the heiress' face as she explored deeper and deeper.

The orgasm was unlike anything Weiss had ever done for herself, not a pleasant release but the cracking of a dam. She would've cried out, had Tarah not taken the moment to trap her in a kiss, tongues finding one another in passion.

"Thank…. you," breathed Weiss, once she became aware of the shower's stream once more, though the words felt painfully inadequate in her mouth. Like Tarah was someone who'd held an elevator door for her, or presented her with an award for philanthropy. This was nothing so small.

"I love making you happy," said Tarah, a sly grin playing across her face as her choice of words flustered and confused Weiss to no end.

As they kissed, the door to the bathroom swung open, and Weiss yanked her head back. Another stall door opened, another shower spun on. Exhale.

"So…" asked Weiss, trailing a finger up Tarah's thigh in what she hoped was a seductive manner. "How do I make _you_ happy?"

"With nothing so cheap as sex, though I appreciate the offer," murmured Tarah. "I think we've been in here long enough," she said, pointing to the effect the water was having on her fingertips. "You make me happy just be being," Tarah concluded, as she rested one hand on the shower's handle. "But if you want to know how to make me orgasmic…" That sly grin.

 _This time tomorrow_ she said without speaking.

Weiss slid out of Tarah's stall without bothering to poke her head out. If there was anyone watching, then a head was all they needed to see to reach the right conclusion. The bathroom was deserted, apart from the unknown girl in a distant stall. Weiss closed the distance to her own stall in record time, cursing every incriminating drop of water that formed a trail from Tarah's to hers, before slipping back inside. Her own bathroom kit remained in a small bag, untouched, the showerhead dutifully pouring water into an empty stall.

She'd have to go without shampoo for the day, she thought with a grin. She heard the sound of Tarah's shower shut off, closing her own two minutes later. She wondered if Tarah toweled off with the same efficiency as Weiss did. Probably not.

Though for once Weiss took her time, listening to the patter of Tarah's steps as she exited the bathroom. Weiss played with the small pools of leftover water with her toe, idly wondering what she could do to Tarah. Her understanding of girl-on-girl action was distressingly limited. Perhaps she should have tapped on those pop-ups on her Scroll after all..

Another girl entered, and the unknown girl in the third stall left. Weiss dressed and followed suit. She doubted anyone was watching their comings and goings, but she knew the old saying about the better part of valor. 

…

She didn't see Tarah that night.

They were informed of an impromptu camping expedition into the forest, a few miles from the main Arkta compound. It was a conspicuously haphazard affair for a Camp that prided itself on both luxury and careful planning. _Almost like the real thing_ , Weiss thought, as she listened to campers bitch about the cold. She hated this cold, too, not the crisp sting of an Atlasian winter but a wet and permeating one. She knew better than to flaunt her discomforts, though.

Tarah's bed was neatly made by the time Weiss returned to Thule Cabin the following morning, her personal affects gone completely. Weiss expressed nothing but the expected banal curiosity, offering no theories of her own as she went through her routine without deviance. That afternoon they had a seminar about 'healthy relationships', how perverse thoughts had lead to the collapse of ancient empires through the pursuit of unnatural pleasures. Weiss normally looked like she was paying attention perhaps 75% of the time, devoting more than sufficient brainpower to whatever the usual speakers discussed. Her appearance was unchanged, but this time her mind was fully alert. She watched the Counselors with her peripheral vision or a disinterested glance, waiting for their eyes to swivel to her when the freakishness of her behavior was elaborated upon. They never did.

The girls put two and two together quickly enough, and for the very last time Tarah was the talk of the town. Weiss embraced the icy chill within her, freezing every twitch and tell she might otherwise have exhibited. She listened as the girls speculated, but never once was Weiss' name invoked. Nobody asked Weiss if she had any particular insight by virtue of sleeping next to her, nor did they become skittish around the heiress.

She didn't feel relieved.

Weiss returned to Schnee Manor several days later. Her father took her to the gardens. He talked at length about his expectations for his daughters, the future of the Schnee Dust Company, his vision for the Schnee bloodline. He was watching her, which she knew, and he knew that she knew. It was an exercise in futility that would have been comical in another life. She evidently passed whatever test he was putting her through, or at the very least did not fail.

They had lunch together in the gardens, overlooking a collection of Mistrali statues whose features had been dulled by centuries of rain. They turned to the subject of Weiss' time at Camp Arkta, where she verbalized the reports she'd already written in her head. Which lights shone brightly and who was burning out. Company gossip, family drama. She made a brief mention of the girl who vanished, presumably for homosexual conduct. Her toes curled involuntarily, but between her boots and the table the tell went unnoticed. Without missing a beat, she continued on to the girl who had a crush on that faunus in that boy band.

The weeks went by as they always did. A month after she returned, Weiss sent an electronic message to Tarah, a nearly-generic letter sent to every girl she'd met at Arkta. Someone paying close attention to her correspondences may have questioned whether it was wise for Weiss to be communicating with someone who was likely exiled from polite society. Had she been asked, Weiss would have shrugged and said she'd given it little thought, that no one who read the formal tone of the letter would mistake it as anything but a routine act of networking. But nobody did, so the lie remain unspoken.

She received a message shortly thereafter that the recipient address did not exist. Weiss deleted the message and returned to her studies.

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The weapons engineering workshop ended, giving Weiss an excuse to dash off, clutching Myrtenaster until her knuckles were white. They both realized that this was not a story that should have been told in public, Weiss overestimating the handle she had on her emotions. It took Ruby a painful ten minutes to finish sealing up Crescent Rose's plating, her mental faculties consumed by the story Weiss had shared. She folded the gun-scythe in on itself and slung it across her back, setting out at either a brisk walk or a slow jog to the dorms. She hoped Blake and Yang had kept to their library study schedule, the last thing Weiss needed was to have to explain herself to them.

The RWBY Dorm was mercifully empty, apart from one heiress, seated on the edge of her bed. She wasn't crying, though puffy eyes and discarded tissues said all Ruby needed to know. The Team Leader took a seat on Blake's bed, putting a generous amount of personal space between her and Weiss. Even her status as Weiss' (unofficial) girlfriend didn’t guarantee that the heiress wanted her close at the moment.

"So that's the story, Ruby. That was my first time." Weiss sighed, and rubbed her dry cheeks. "Gods, I'm such a bitch."

In a flurry of petals Ruby closed the distance between her and Weiss, spinning the roulette wheel and betting that Weiss needed her nearby. She wrapped her arms around Weiss, and wasn't shaken off, so she probably guessed right. "No you're not, Weiss," said Ruby, her voice almost pleading. "I mean, yeah, you can be mean and scary sometimes but…" Ruby fumbled for words, her brain screaming in panic as she realized that that was an _extraordinarily_ bad place for a sentence to trail off. "But you can be really nice, too! You help me be a better Team Leader! You weren't so mean that you couldn't change the way you feel about Blake. You don't even make fun of her and Yang for dating, not really."

"Ruby…." Weiss let out a resigned sigh. "I can cut people out of my life with barely a second thought. After a while I just taught myself to stop caring about Tarah. And the thing is, _it worked_. And I didn't feel the need to stand up for her, or try to change anything, I just went back to telling lies because it was so _easy_ to ." Sniffle. "Ruby… I… I don't know if you should be with someone who can stop caring about you because it's convenient."

"Don't be a dunce," said Ruby, flicking Weiss on the shoulder. "You're not the ice monster you pretend you are. 'Cuz if you were, you wouldn't be here right now. Checkmate!"

Ruby looked impossibly pleased with her logic, and even Weiss smiled at that, however faintly. "What I did before I didn't do by accident."

"Yeah, I know," said Ruby, a little sorrowfully, "And we could spend all night coming up with a list of things that are gonna go wrong. But you're a good person, Weiss, and I know that whatever happens you'll do the right thing."

"You can't know that," chastised Weiss, the undeserved trust Ruby was investing in her almost causing her to shiver. "You can't see what I'm going to do."

"Sometimes you don't need to see," said Ruby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tarah's name is a not-particularly-subtle reference to her character's inspiration, one of the greatest lesbians in all of fiction. She's from another show about a group of high schoolers who save the world a lot.
> 
> The inspiration for Weiss and Ruby's dynamic comes from JessicaX's "Princess Fresh Powder", which you really, really need to read.


	4. Ruby  - The Evidence of Things Unseen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victory and simple souls

They sat in silence for some time, wishing for some distraction to alleviate the emotional tension of Weiss' story and subsequent deconstruction. But, of course, nothing happened, because real life was never that serendipitous. So Ruby was left sitting like a mute dummy, having neither the wisdom nor experience to say anything intelligent. But she could wrap her arms around Weiss, and that was better than nothing.

"I want to say I know how you feel Weiss, but… I really don't," said Ruby. She'd lost two mothers, true, but her half-sister felt the loss far more acutely than Ruby, for whom it was more a tragic fact of life, a vague and distant sadness.

"Thanks for not pretending," said Weiss, sniffing uncharacteristically. She brushed a stray hair out of Ruby's face.

"So… no sex since then?" asked Ruby, partly out of curiosity but mostly to get them talking again. Silences were good for brooding and little else.

"Nothing," confirmed Weiss. "But that's not so unusual for a teenager, you know. And sex isn't that important, really, just because it feels good." _Blush._ "It's having someone to l-… having someone to make happy that's important."

"Hmmmm," _hmm'd_ Ruby.

"That's why they made you Team Leader, isn't it?" said Weiss, finally able to bring that point up without feeling bitter or embarrassed. "You care for other people. Maybe 'happiness' is too trite a word, but you want them to be...."

"'Happy' is a good word, Weiss," interjected Ruby.

"Alright then. You make me happy, Ruby," said Weiss, fingers stroking a reddening cheek.

"And angry sometimes," said Ruby, instinctively downplaying the compliment.

"Everyone makes me angry sometimes," Weiss clarified. "But when I'm mad at everyone else, mad at the world itself, all I need to do is see your face or hear your voice, and suddenly Remnant seems a much better place."

Ruby face was as read as her cloak by the time Weiss finished. There was absolutely no way that could be explained away as a mere polite compliment or courteous gesture.

"Making you happy makes me happy," said Ruby, doing her best to express her feelings, but the cheesiness of her own words was making her cringe like bad movie dialogue.

"There are worse cycles to be in," said Weiss with small grin, before planting a kiss on Ruby's lips.

They exchanged soft kisses for several minutes, before their uniforms became uncomfortably warm. Ruby slipped out of her uniform jacket (and the accompanying cloak). Weiss was partial to that state of undress, the way the dark tan vest fit snug against her body, sharpening and accentuating. Weiss pressed her hands against the small of Ruby's back, fiddling absent-mindedly with the buckle at the back of vest's belt, while elsewhere her lips sealed and separated from Ruby's. Her hands moved up, her thumbs coming to a rest beneath the curve of Ruby's breasts.

"I'm… okay if you want to go further tonight, Weiss," said Ruby, her words like steps through a minefield. "Though I totally understand if you're, like, not in the mood. Or something." Those wide, earnest grey eyes.

"I would have no objections," replied Weiss, with mock formality. She glanced at the clock. "Though I think we should take the time to properly…communicate… with our roommates."

Ruby paused momentarily, then widened her eyes in comprehension. "Ooooh. Yeah. I'll do Blake, you get Yang."

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Yang's scroll buzzed. A handful of her fellow masochists in the library at this hour scowled in her direction, but she habitually ignored them. Across the book-strewn table, she saw Blake open her scroll in turn.

"Dear Yang," narrated the blonde, pitching her voice is a nasally imitation of the heiress. "Do not, under any circumstances, return to the dormitory without invitation. This is for your own well-being, and the well-being of your teammates. I have arranged a contingency sleepover with JNPR should you feel the need to retire before I invite you to return. Thank you in advance for your cooperation. Sincerely, Weiss Schnee."

Yang glanced across the table, a perplexed expression on her face, as Blake finished reading her own message. "Mine just says: 'Blake, do not enter the dorm. Do not pass Go. Do not collect 200 lien. Ruby.' She scrolled down. "Oh, there's a postscript. 'PS: I will make it up to you with the cookies of your choice'."

"You know what this means, right?" said Yang, peering deep into her partner's eyes. Blake nodded, slowly, cautiously, wondering if she would be visiting Yang in a psychiatric hospital or a prison. "My little sister is going to be become a woman!"

Blake sighed, her gaze returning to the half-written literature review. There'd be no recapturing Yang's focus now. "Alright, let's see if JNPR is up for game night," said Blake, closing her notebooks and binder. "Before you starts…. _visualizing_ …. anything."

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By the time Blake and Yang had exited the library, Weiss and Ruby were already horizontal, Weiss' snow-white ponytail tickling Ruby's nose. Ruby giggled, batting it away like a cat with a toy, before grabbing Weiss by her collar and collapsing the heiress atop her. Their teeth collided with one another's, admittedly not the sexist of sensations, but it was soon forgotten amidst the patter of kisses.

"So," murmured Weiss, whispering in Ruby's ear, "do you want me to get naked?"

Ruby's heart skipped a beat. "I was…going to try to be subtle about it," she half-whimpered, as Weiss towered over her, undoing her jacket and vest. Her blouse and skirt soon followed, and Ruby swallowed in nervous excitement. She'd seen Weiss in her nightgown before, obviously, caught glimpses of her in various states of undress as they hastily changed between outfits, but never…. bra and panties (and socks), each providing a sharp contrast with her alabaster skin. Weiss' hands slipped behind her back, causing it to jut out eye-catchingly before Ruby heard a soft click, and the bra drifted from Weiss' chest.

"I don't know if you like… bigger or smaller," said Weiss, acutely self-conscious.

Ruby puzzled over this momentarily, before apparently reaching an answer. "I like yours," she concluded, definitively. "Oh, um, I should probably get undressed, too," she said, as if belatedly remembering to respond to a text. She powered through any sense of awkwardness to strip down to her bra and panties, though she kept on her uniform stockings, which covered almost the entirety of her legs.

They were silent for the next several minutes, Weiss letting Ruby explore her nude torso. Her touch was careful and deliberate, watching every twitch and shiver of Weiss' body. Ruby slid her own bra off in turn, equally self-conscious, but the sensation of pressing her bare chest against Weiss' was not one to be missed for such petty fears. Weiss wrapped her legs around Ruby's hips, so their bodies were intertwined about as closely as possible, engaging in long kisses so their hands could press against bare backs.

"I…. wouldn't mind doing the next part," said Ruby, the Team Leader's voice steady despite how she inwardly shook. "Can you tell me what you want me to do?"

Weiss planted an all-enveloping kiss on Ruby's lips, before carefully disentangling herself. "I want you to lie down on the bed, with your legs off the edge," she instructed, hoping her words didn't sound like an order or command. Ruby bobbed her head and was soon flat on her back. Weiss stroked her hair one more time, before sliding off the bed to kneel in front of it. She pulled a pillow off the bed for padding, then began running her hands up and down Ruby's stockings.

"Describe how this feels," said Weiss, as her hands coiled around Ruby's thighs. She couldn't see Ruby's face from this angle, which was admittedly a downside, but she could make out the way her chest heaved with each excited breath.

"Really… um…. good," said Ruby, increasingly breathless. Through the plain white panties of her Team Leader, Weiss could make out signs of excitement, but she kept her pace slow and deliberate.

"Do you mind if I take these off?" asked Weiss, moving her fingers to the stop of the stockings. Ruby shook her head from side to side, and Weiss' fingers curled around the stockings' hems, rolling each down with deliberate care. Only once both the stockings were off did Weiss return her hands to Ruby's bare legs, the intimacy of her touch sending a tingle up Ruby's spine.

Weiss could see the way Ruby's hand kept drifting towards her crotch before hastily falling back to the bed. The heiress planted a series of kisses up her girlfriend's thigh, and was rewarded with a sensuous groan.

"You can touch yourself if you like, or have me do it," said Weiss, watching the way the fingers on Ruby's right hand twitched with nervous anticipation.

"I thought that was just… for when you're alone," said Ruby awkwardly, as her hand came to a rest on her mons pubis.

"Ruby, you do whatever feels good and your partner's okay with," shot back Weiss, her tone taking on a hint of Goodwitch's sharply-worded directives. "And I'm okay if you want to do that, or have me do it, or both."

"Right. Duh," said Ruby, as her fingers slipped beneath her panties and began rubbing her folds for a few moments. "Do you wanna take my panties off?" asked Ruby.

Weiss responded by hooking her fingers around Ruby's underwear and sliding them down in one quick gesture. Ruby made no move to cover herself, her thighs spread open in a relaxed manner, so Weiss made her next move, fingers tracing inwards from hips to vulva. Ruby's breaths grew shorter and quicker as Weiss began kneading in concentric circles, Ruby having abandoned her efforts of self-stimulation in favor of the heiress doing all the work.

Weiss continued like this until Ruby's folds were fully parted, her toes curling and uncurling in nervous anticipation. That was Weiss' cue to lean in, take a deep breath, then extend her tongue in an elongated stroke along Ruby's labia.

"Oh, Dust, Weiss," breathed Ruby, the closest to a cuss the Fearless Leader was getting anytime soon. "That feels….amazing."

Weiss, for once, did not care about the propriety of the situation, of what anyone would think if they saw her nuzzled between Ruby's thighs. Scent, taste and touch conspired in an unholy trinity to lure her back in. Her tongue pushed deeper with probing bobs, the tips of her fingers slipping between Ruby's folds to trace them with the utmost gentleness.

Ruby, though, appeared to be nearing her limit for tolerating Weiss' gentle ministrations. She whimpered pitifully with each lap of the heiress' tongue, balled hands into fists and bit down on her lip. Without realizing it, she had begun gyrating her hips, gently but firmly pushing harder into Weiss' face.

"Could you… press harder, Weiss? Please," begged Ruby, to Weiss' self-satisfied smile.

Weiss could've teased or tortured Ruby with her request, but pushed harder without interruption, using the length of her fingers for pressure while she brushed her tongue inside Ruby with the grace of a calligraphist. Truth be told Weiss had little more experience than Ruby in matters of sapphic love, though since her arrival at Beacon and the hours of unsupervised research that had afforded her she had taken the opportunity to become an expert theoretician.

Weiss pulled back momentarily, eliciting a whimper from Ruby. Her left thumb slid into place above Ruby's clitoris, rubbing the nub, while she slipped a finger from her other hand inside Ruby. Weiss waited for a shriek, a gasp of pain, but when she heard only pleasurable moans she returned her tongue to its task, licking her outer folds with long, flat strokes.

She could almost certainly have gotten Ruby off without any penetration, but her goal was to give Ruby a more holistic experience. She found the edges of Ruby's pussy, curling her finger slowly and listening to the way Ruby spasmed on the sheets. She dared slip in a second finger, and Ruby let out an unworldly groan that echoed through the halls. From that point on the Team Leader lost any and all inhibitions, shouting and moaning, her universe collapsed to the sensations between her legs.

Weiss gave one final push, tongue and fingers and thumb working up into a passionate frenzy until she felt the shudder course through her girlfriend's body. A cynic might have thought Ruby's sensuous moan was fake, copied from an unrealistic pornographic performance, but not Weiss. To begin with, Ruby had never seen enough erotic material to have an idea of how she should have sounded, but more importantly she would never think to manipulate anyone in such an intimate setting. Her shouts were unfeigned and _definitely_ unexpected.

Ruby - meek, shy, quiet little Ruby - could be very loud given the right stimuli, Weiss concluded with a pleased grin, as Ruby cried out like a wolf to the Moon.

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JNPR Game Night had turned into a decidedly more awkward affair about twenty minutes ago, and absolutely no one, even Nora, wanted to discuss why. Yang had politely asked if she could borrow Nora's noise-canceling headphones, to which the young woman had hastily retrieved and proffered. The volume was cranked so high that Blake could make out every word of the Achieve Men's _Rage Quit: The Impossible Album_ , while the blonde stared at the door with a shell-shocked look on her face. Whether Yang was coping well or not at all was a perilous question to explore.

Ruby strolled in several minutes later, wearing the same pajama combo she always did, a silly grin slapped across her face. Her bare feet echoed across the room until she found a seat beside Jaune on the floor, untangling one of the small plastic controllers and wordlessly joining his game.

Weiss joined them several minutes later, having taken the time to shower. She caught Blake's knowing look, Pyrrha's polite nonchalance, Nora's wide-eyed anticipation of a good story. Weiss sidestepped Yang altogether, who was apparently trying to wash her ear canals out with sound alone, and took a seat next to Ruby.

Being no kind of gamer Weiss was a significant handicap to Ruby in whatever this colorful game they were playing was, but the Team Leader lead them to victory over Jaune and his AI ally partner nonetheless. Between bouts of gunfire and explosions, while waiting to respawn or a match to load, fingers intertwined. Each brush made the other happy, which made her partner happier in turn.

That's all there is to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of Weiss' and Ruby's dialogue is heavily inspired by Cynnifer's "Faunus Uprising: A Monochrome Romance", another of my favorites.
> 
> Thanks to anyone who read this far (even if you just skipped to this chapter). Special thanks to anyone who left feedback on my earlier works that helped push me to write this. Again, any and all feedback is greatly appreciated. Plot, characterization, themes, whatever. Not enough easter eggs or far too many?
> 
> Until next time.


End file.
